


The Heartbeat of History

by nostalgicplant



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Depression, Equestrian, M/M, This is super self-indulgent, anxiety tw, chubby!yuuri, dressage au, mental health, yuuri on horses!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-04 18:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 43,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12777234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgicplant/pseuds/nostalgicplant
Summary: “Yuuri,” Viktor says softly as he reaches out to lift Yuuri’s hand. He raises it to his lips and kisses his knuckle softly. Internally, Yuuri explodes. “Did you ever think that you just needed someone to really, finally, push you?”No, Yuuri thinks,I just need someone to believe in me.Or: the Yuuri on Ice AU where they ride horses.





	1. lightning, insanity, striking inside of me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Welcome to the world's MOST indulgent fic in EXISTENCE. If you're the YOI timeline police, do NOT read this, because I totally messed up on when everything happens and decided I liked how it worked in this piece. So. Fiction. Both Yuuri and Viktor have mental health issues in this fic, and a lot of their symptoms mirror the ones I exhibit. That said, no two people are the same, so these depictions of mental health are not a say-all end-all. Umm... other than that, there isn't much you need to know. I also don't have a beta, so I'm super sorry if anything is spelled wrong! Oops!!! Enjoy!

Vicchan’s neck is tense and coated in a thin layer of sweat. He jigs in place, jaw tightened against the bit. 

Yuuri clenches the reins tightly, bracing against his horse’s mouth. 

“You can enter now,” the ring steward tells him. “Good luck.”

Somewhere, in the distant background, Yuuri can hear Coach Celestino say something like ‘relax,’ but it doesn’t register. He releases the reins slightly, and squeezes Vicchan into the arena. The horse scoots forwards, driving into an uneven canter. He balks a few strides into the massive area at the sound of 5,000 spectators cheering for the rider leaving the court. 

The arena is freshly dragged, even tan dirt spread out in front of Yuuri and his mount. The ring seems smaller than it was on warm-up day, like the movements won’t fit in the ring. Yuuri’s chest feels just as tight and cramped.

Yuuri steers Vicchan around the court, trotting his horse past the bright bunches of flowers gathered near the letters and judges booth. 

His body feels stiff, as if he’s riding for the first time, uncertain and uncomfortable. Vicchan opens his mouth and tosses his head into Yuuri’s stiff hands. He lowers his hand to give his horse a soft scratch on his neck as he passes the head judge’s table. Vicchan doesn’t relax. Neither does Yuuri.

It’s been a long ride to European Championships. He did decently well in the qualifying Grand Prixes, despite never quite managing to score a win, but consistently coming in the ribbons. Of course, that wasn’t in a massive arena with sportscasters analyzing his every step. That wasn’t the biggest show Yuuri’s ever ridden in. That wasn’t right now, with his family a thousand miles away and his nerves at their peak. 

The head judge rings the bell, signaling Yuuri to enter the arena to start his test.

He tightens the reins again, and Vicchan tenses. Yuuri swings his leg back to ask for the canter, but accidently does so too hard and nails Vicchan with his spur. He plunges forward, shaking his head and charging forward a few strides before Yuuri can regain control. 

His vision blurs. He pulls Vicchan back onto his haunches, neck coiled and legs springing. 

He remembers seeing Celestino on the side of the arena, a grim look on his face. He remembers glancing at the scoreboard, seeing the current leading score well over his personal best. And then. Snippets.

Vicchan falling out in the halt, twisting his neck to stare at something outside the ring. 

Breaking to the canter in his first medium trot, body too stiff to sink into his horse’s back.

Uneven rhythm in the half passes, hands stiff and jaw set. 

Vicchan half rearing mid-pirouette. 

Almost halting in the piaffe. 

Losing count of his one-tempis and just doing them until he hits the letter at the other side of the ring.

Halting at X again, saluting, and hearing stunted applause and murmurs from the audience. 

Yuuri lets out a shaky breath and loosens the reins, running his hands over Vicchan’s sweaty neck. 

It’s over.  
-  
Yuuri has equally disastrous rounds for the Grand Prix Special and Freestyle. He’s tense in his body, and it throws his rides off. He doesn’t feel the music in his freestyle like he hoped he would. 

Vicchan has to carry him through the test at points when he loses focus. There are strong parts of test – but they’re far overshadowed by the moments where he falls apart. 

He’s brushing Vicchan in his stall when Celestino approaches him with the final scoresheets. He leans over the tall gates. Vicchan stretches a soft grey muzzle toward Celestino, searching for treats. Yuuri doesn’t turn around, just keeps currying Vicchan’s already glimmering coat. 

“Your final composite score was a 62.96%,” Celestino says finally. 

Yuuri nods, holding back tears. He hasn’t scored that low in the grand prix ever.

“You were 15th.” 

Out of 15. He was last.

Celestino opens the stall door and slips inside. He places a gnarled hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. 

Yuuri ignores it, and resolutely curries the same spot in Vicchan’s coat over and over, tears spilling over his cheeks. 

“I’m going to put the tests in your tack trunk. We can go over them later, when you’re feeling better, yes?” Celestino gives Yuuri a strong squeeze. “I know it wasn’t your best weekend, but you made it here, and I’m proud of you for that.” With that, he slips out of the stall and leaves Yuuri to his horse. He buries his head into Vicchan’s neck and sobs.  
-  
Three hours later, FEI leading rider and newly crowned 4 time European Champion Viktor Nikiforov, gets into his car to drive to his hotel after bidding his horse and groom staff goodnight with a smile. 

He doesn’t make it back.  
-  
Two weeks after legendary dressage rider Viktor Nikiforov is hospitalized in a car wreck involving a drunk driver and shatters his left leg, Yuuri gets a call from Yuko, the stable manager. 

All she says is, ‘come quick. It’s Vicchan.’  
-  
Two weeks after Japan’s leading dressage rider, Yuuri Katsuki, has to put down his long time ride Vicchan after an unsuccessful colic surgery, Celestino loses a pupil. 

Yuuri flies home to Japan, taking his young project horse with him. 

 

And after that, for a long time, there is no news from either the Russian or Japanese stars.  
-  
Minako watches from the side of the ring while Yuuri hacks History around the ring. The young bay horse and dark haired rider share looks of equal concentration. Yuuri’s hands are soft and supple as he encourages History across the diagonal, pushing him into an extended trot, and then quickly pulling him back to a collected gait. History stiffens, surprised at the quick change of pace. 

“He stiffens, no matter what I do,” Yuuri explains through the headset. Minako dutifully follows Yuuri’s movements with the video camera and listens. “All his downwards score lower than they should because he locks his neck as soon as he hits the bit, and then it takes him too long to settle back into the rhythm.” 

He repeats the exercise. History’s hooves quicken across the dirt arena, then shorten. Yuuri asks for less collection this time, just curling his fingers tighter around the reins. Regardless, History tightens his neck, and for a few steps, loses the balance and connection. 

Tired, Yuuri softens further and reins the horse into a walk. History stretches his sweaty neck downward, blowing dirt out of his nose and happily chomping at the bit. 

Minako shuts off the video camera and shrugs. “I know a lot more about conditioning humans than horses, but maybe you should just build up more strength on him? Maybe he won’t stiffen if he can hold himself.”

Yuuri pulls up in front of Minako and shrugs. “He doesn’t have a problem with his upward movements, and that usually takes more strength. I think he has balance issues, and I’ve never worked with a horse that thinks he’s going to fall over whenever he slows down.” The Japanese man chuckles and reaches down to rub his hands along History’s neck. “Vicchan was the most balanced ride in the world. I’m so used to riding the opposite that this one is hard.”

History throws his head up and pricks his ears at the sound of a crinkling wrapper. Minako pulls a peppermint from her jacket pocket and unwraps it, feeding it to the 8 year old. 

“I did get it all on video,” she says, “do you want to watch?”

Yuuri nods, and Minako unscrews the camera from the tripod and hands it to Yuuri. 

“Feed him peppermints so he doesn’t walk away,” Yuuri instructs. 

Minako laughs, and complies. “Careful, Yuuri, or he’ll be as chubby as you soon.” 

Yuuri rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment. After Vicchan was put down, he didn’t ride, or work out, for a month. He hasn’t been in competition shape at all, because he doesn’t have anyone, or any motivation, to do the FEI levels. History is too young and inexperienced, and since he’s young, can’t be ridden at the level that Vicchan was. Hence, hitting the gym has gone from a necessity to a ‘maybe later.’

He watches the video critically, analyzing the moments before the transition, and then his horse’s stiffness in the slowing of gait. He rewinds and observes again. 

“He has every movement he needs to start doing the FEI levels, but he’s going to lose a lot of points for the bit of stiffness here and there. Hell, he’s talented enough to step into the Intermediate 1 or even 2 ring if he didn’t get so tense.”

“Hm,” Minako says, still stuffing History with peppermints, which he eagerly licks off her hands, “tense, huh? I don’t know anyone like that.”

“But I’m not even tense!” Yuuri exclaims, and hands the camera back. He shortens his reins and pulls a disappointed History away from Minako. “Before he gets tired, there’s something else I wanted you to film for me.”

The door to the indoor ring suddenly swings open. Yuuri swivels quickly to see another horse and rider standing in the doorway, with three small figures chuckling nearby. 

“I heard you were in here!” Yuko calls, “mind if I hack with you?” She squeezes her horse into the ring – her retired junior horse, Shōri. He’s a big bay, once impressive, but now sway backed and grizzled. 

Yuko and Yuuri did Japanese, and later, European, juniors together before Yuko was flipped by a young horse she was training and quit the competitive scene. Now, she owns and manages the equestrian center in Hasetsu where they rode as kids. 

She’s married to Takeshi now, one of their stablemates who used to make fun of Yuuri for his chubby frame, regardless of how many times he rode stirrupless. The two of them have made huge improvements to the center since Yuuri’s been gone. 

While Yuko and Takeshi built up the Hasetu equestrian center and settled down, he trained with Celestino in America for 3 years, leaving his life in Japan behind for the chance to work with one of the most well-respected coaches in the world. Celestino brought him from a timid young rider to a proficient grand prix rider – until European championships, where he crashed and burned. 

Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to face his barnmates and coach after his disastrous rides. Celestino had a troupe of young, successful young riders who were making their way up to the Grand Prix. Despite his love for several of them, he had run home, hoping he could recover in Japan for a few months and get his confidence back. 

And then –

Colic. It was a bad case of gas colic, no one’s fault, really. By the time the vet drove out, Vicchan was soaked in sweat and in pain. He refused to stand, collapsed at the end of the barn aisle, eyes heavy and body trembling. There wasn’t anything they could do, just offer their apologies and let Yuuri hold his best friend’s head while they administered the shot that stopped his heart. 

That was 8 months ago. Yuuri is thankful that he had History all this time – a young horse that Celestino sold him a few months after he got to America with the promise that he’d help Yuuri train him. And he had – they’d placed consistently in young horses classes around the states. He was a different ride, a challenging ride, but still a rewarding one. He was young, sweet, and kind, and Yuuri appreciated that he could ride him without the stress that had always come with Vicchan. Getting on always felt like he was letting his horse down with his subpar riding skills. History was happy to just get out of his stall and see Yuuri. 

“Come on in,” Yuuri calls to Yuko. The triples close the barn door behind her and race up the side of the ring to greet Minako, who looks startled at the sight of 3 young girls in braids racing toward her. 

Yuko sidles alongside Yuuri and History, and they walk together, letting History breathe and Shōri warm up. 

“It’s odd, seeing you on a horse, Yuko,” Yuuri smiles. Lately, only the triples have been riding the bay, taking turns walking and trotting around the ring. 

She chuckles, reaching down to rub Shōri’ shining neck. “It’s odd, seeing you riding, Yuuri. And besides, the girls are making me jealous. I miss my beast.” 

He’s been coming to the barn especially early in the last months, working on a freestyle with History when the rings are freshly grated and the barn quiet. The best part of riding is getting to be alone, and at peace with himself and the horse.

The continue walking around the ring, chatting about Yuko’s plans to add more mirrors to the long sides of the arena and repainting the stalls and tack room. After a lap of casual walking, Yuuri smiles and regathers his reins. 

“Not to be rude, but I’m going to run through a routine I’ve been working on for a bit. You can watch if you want?” 

Yuko clucks to Shōri and moves him toward the lunging area outside the dressage court. “If you’re filming it, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Ready, Minako?” Yuuri calls. Minako looks up, from where she’s been trying to pry the video camera out of the triplet’s hands. He squeezes History into a canter, tightening his reins and adjusting his seat to be more relaxed. 

Yuuri halts at the AUX cord connection to the speaker system. He leans over to plug his phone in. He scrolls through his music selection quickly before selecting a song. 

Minako wrestles the camera back into the tripod, and quickly climbs to the judges booth to set the camera at a better angle for recording. She turns her headset back on. 

“I’m ready whenever.” 

Yuuri hits play, and places his phone onto the box quickly. History knows what is coming, and jigs excitedly. Yuuri straightens, and then the music begins. He squeezes the gelding into a collected canter, and begins along with the music. 

It’s a calm of a harp and violin as he canters up the centerline. Halts, salutes, and then trots on. 

Stammi vicino, e ogni cosa vedrai.

Yuuri can see Minako’s eyes widen from the judges box. 

“Oh, Yuuri,” Yuko whispers as he trots by, setting History up for his first extended. The stretch across the arena, his horse floating to the music. Halfway across the arena, just as the tempo changes to the increase in vocals, Yuuri pulls History back. The horse tenses, but when he asks him to half pass sideways, he does so easily, lofting sideways with his head bent softly left. 

He comes out of the corner and turns up the centerline, centering History between his legs before asking him to passage. The music peaks as History prances, picking his legs up higher than before and seeming to hover in place before setting them down again. He’s young – his passage isn’t the best, but he does try. 

He half passes the other direction at the centerline, still passaging. It’s a difficult movement, especially for an 8 year-old. He doesn’t have the knee action that Viktor and Makkachin have when they rode the freestyle, but for an 8 year old, he is exceptional. 

It’s a half turn, with alternating shoulder-ins down the quarterline, and then back to passaging. 

The music peaks. Yuuri holds History with his seat, and the horse sits, piaffing – the epitome of the grand prix. He steps in place, effortlessly to the music. Yuuri opens his inside rein. It’s a lot to ask from a young horse – this advanced of a grand prix movement, but History obliges. He turns, not moving a step forward, but rather pivoting as if Yuuri is the center of sphere. He does a 360 degree turn to face back toward the judge, and then steps out of it. He hesitates going into the passage, legs almost tangling in his youth, but he recovers and presses on.

Yuuri can feel History tiring underneath him. He usually breaks up the program so that History doesn’t have to passage for so long, but this time, he needs his horse’s strength. Yuuri sneaks in a soft pat to his neck, and then squeezes him forward for another extended trot. History’s legs flash forwards and upward, his flashy and powerful extended trot propelling him forward. 

They slow to a walk as the music calms, but History still steps along to the music. He feels the beat in his extended walk, and even as History takes the reins and stretches forward, the horse’s ears are pricked forward and eager to work. When he regathers the reins and urges him into a canter, the music rises. Yuuri blanks, but not like he did at Championships. 

Suddenly, it is just him and History in the ring. The music is a blanket, and it wraps around them. He rides his horse through a canter half pass zig zag. History misses a change, getting flustered with the steep half passes and rapid changes. Yuuri reaches an arm forward to reassure his horse with a quick pat on his neck. 

History visibly relaxes into Yuuri’s hand. They continue cantering, then push into an extended canter out of the turn. History gallops forward, moving solidly across the arena. He pulls back to collect him, and the horse tenses, as expected. Yuuri doesn’t even care. History is fluid, right on with the music, and he feels energetic and fluid. Now for the hardest part of the routine for the young horse. Yuuri heads down the centerline, away from the judges. Doing any movement on the centerline is always risky because the judges can see even the slightest deviation or lack of straightness. 

He sits back, and collects History onto his haunches. The young horse knows what is approaching. He stiffens his body, worried about the tough movement. And then, he begins to nearly canter in place. His front hooves rise and fall with easy movements, and his hind legs reach up to turn him in a circle. They’re pirouetting – spinning around. Yuuri makes two full rotations before he urges History forward carefully. The young horse is soaked in sweat already from the difficulty of the routine and his nerves. Then, they begin the tempi changes – lead changes on a set number. History can barely make his two tempis, so that’s all Yuuri asks for. He misses a few, faltering on the aid, but always trying his hardest to please.

When they finish, pulling up to the final notes of Viktor Nikiforov and Makkachin’s gold medal winning freestyle, Yuko, Minako, and the triples are silent. He loosens the reins, reaching forward to wrap his arms around his horse’s neck as if they’ve just won gold. 

“Holy shit.” Minako calls out as Yuuri guides his horse toward the judge’s booth. 

Yuko rides Shōri to the edge of the arena, mouth parted. “That – that was Viktor’s freestyle, wasn’t it?”

Yuuri pinches his lips together and nods as he walks in a circle. 

“I know it wasn’t great. I don’t have the same technicality that he rides with, and History doesn’t have the experience Makkachin has, and I know it’s kind of a disaster but-

“No, Yuuri, god, that was amazing!” Yuko cries. She’s grinning ear to ear. “I haven’t seen you ride that well in years. It doesn’t matter that you missed some movements – you’re on an 8 year old, not a grand prix horse, for god’s sakes.”

Yuuri blushes and reaches down to rub History’s sweaty shoulder. 

“He’s nowhere near ready for the Grand Prix, and he won’t be for a few more years, but he’s got potential.”

The triples all pipe up from below with eager comments from the side of the arena. 

“Wow Yuri!” Axel calls. 

“Amazing!” Loop chimes in.

“So much better than your ride at Europeans!” Lutz finishes. 

Yuuri smiles, thanking the girls and swinging down from History’s back. The tall black horse bends his head around to greet Yuuri on the ground, ears pricked and eyes wide. Yuuri pulls the reins over History’s head and rubs his forehead. 

Minako steps down from the booth, camera in hand. She’s smiling softly. 

“You know, for someone who put on 20 pounds in 6 months, you’re still quite good.” 

Yuuri rolls his eyes and leads History from the ring.

-

Yuuri Katsuki wakes up the next morning to the sound of his phone buzzing off the hook. He groans and rolls over before pulling it to his ear. 

“Hello?” He whines, checking the watch on his wrist to reveal the time. It’s 7 am. God, whoever is calling better have a good reason. 

“Yuuri, hi, it’s Yuko.” 

Yuuri’s stomach drops. He scrambles upright, and memories of this same call, months ago, echo through his head. 

“Oh god,” Yuuri whispers. “Please tell me History’s okay.”

“What? Yeah. Oh my god Yuuri, I’m talking about the video.” 

His heart rate slows. 

“I don’t know how the girls got that video of you off your camera yesterday. They must have uploaded it when we were all off looking at the tack room. I’m so sorry, I’ll get them to take it down right away!”

“Uh,” Yuuri starts, confused. “What video?”

There is a pause on the end of the line. An odd feeling begins creeping up Yuuri’s stomach. He grabs his laptop from his bedside table and opens it. 

“The triples uploaded your ride yesterday – you riding Viktor’s freestyle. It’s blowing up. You’re all over the Chronicle of the Horse, and USDF, and pretty much every horse new site that exists. I’m so so so sorry.”

Yuuri feels sick. 

That program wasn’t for the world to see. That was Viktor’s program, the last one his idol ever, and may ever, complete. 

After Viktor’s car accident and subsequent leg injury, the dressage world went quiet. Without Viktor’s constant surprises in the ring and magic dances with his horse, Makkachin, a quiet had settled over the international stage. It seemed everyone was mourning the loss of Russia’s greatest duo, who were rumored to be retiring. 

Viktor’s accident was debilitating, according to the articles Yuuri had read, reread, and rereread. The impact of the drunk driver T-boning his car had left his left leg shattered in 6 separate places, and his ACL torn in half. His chances of ever riding, especially at the caliber he used to, were apparently slim. 

The Russian legend had been uncharacterically silent in the last few months. As far as anyone knew, he was off the grid completely. 

Yuuri had been following Viktor since he was young, and dreaming of riding fancy horses with braided mains and shiny tails. He had always been the unattainable great just a few years older than him, elegant and precise on whoever he rode.

Truthfully, when Yuuri was looking for a grand prix horse, he chose Vicchan for the reason that his name was close to Viktor’s, even though the horse wasn’t as flashy or well-trained as some of the others he looked at. He couldn’t resist a horse that reminded and inspired him of his idol. 

And now, here Yuuri was, riding his young, green horse though Viktor’s brilliant routine while Viktor was sidelined and Yuuri came in basically last at European championships. Here is Yuuri, missing his tempis and desecrating the world record holder’s famous freestyle. 

He closes his eyes, groans, hangs up, and flops backwards onto his bed. 

-

www.chronofthehorse.com/articles/C0_9xg/Katsuki_yuuri_freestyle

Katsuki Yuuri, Japanese Star, Preforms Viktor Nikiforov’s ‘Stammi Vicino’ Freestyle  
Written by: Olga Hereford  
Tuesday, November 12, 2016, 1:54 PM

Attention all Nikiforov fans who have been missing their idol since his accident earlier this year – it appears we have a Viktor stand-in. Long-time Nikiforov fan and top Japanese rider, Yuuri Katsuki, has ridden a rousing edition of Nikiforov’s final freestyle, “Stammi Vivino,” on his young horse, History Maker. 

The video was uploaded to youtube last night, and has since gone viral among the riding world. Katsuki lost his grand prix mount, Vicchan, 8 months ago to colic complications. His young mount has been his grand prix ride in training for the last 4 years, and has taken top placings at US Young Horse Championships with Katsuki piloting. 

While the two fail to have the precise executional power that Nikiforov and his famous mount, Vicchan, possess, there is an undeniable power to the duo’s movements. Katsuki rides the freestyle with more sync to the music, and arguably rides better interpretation to the music. He rides with none of the hesitation we’ve seen from him in the past. 

We are excited to see where Katsuki and ‘History’ go in future years. 

The Chronicle reached out to Viktor Nikiforov for comment, but he declined to reply. 

-

 

“Yuuri!” Yuko calls as he enters the barn. 

Damn. Yuuri was hoping he wouldn’t have to see anyone at the barn today. After the video of him riding Viktor’s freestyle went viral, Yuuri had mainly tried to avoid social media, the public sphere, and humans in general. He read a few comments on the video, ranging from ‘wow! Better than viktor himself !11!’ to ‘weak lol. Katsuki made a good attempt, but no one can ride like viktor.’

He smiles and waves weakly, unclipping History’s stall door and slipping inside. He’s given the big horse the last 2 days off, letting him recover from having to ride all of the freestyle – and doing it to the absolute best of his ability. 

Today, they’re going on a hack outside. It’s surprisingly sunny for a November day, warm enough to ride out and actually enjoy yourself. There’s a trail that rides through some open fields and trees that Yuuri likes to take – he rarely sees other people, but the trails are well-maintained and he can open History up and let him gallop and stretch out. It’s a good way to relax his horse’s mind and let him enjoy his ride. 

Yuuri grabs History’s halter and slips it over his velvety nose. He leads him out of his stall, walking him through the aisles of horses, noses out and ears pricked, and clips him into the cross ties. 

Yuko is pouring fresh shavings into a stall just across from the tack room. 

“New horse coming in?” Yuuri asks. The barn has been quiet lately – Yuko hasn’t had a new client in a while. 

She pulls her earbud out and sets the wheelbarrow down. 

“Yeah, actually. It’s super short notice – apparently it just cleared customs today. I don’t know anything about the owner, just that the horse arrives at 12 and he’s meeting it here.” 

Yuuri checks his watch. It’s 10:30 – if he gets on quickly, he probably won’t have to interact with whoever is coming. He grabs a brush out of the bin on the side of the steel bars and begins brushing History’s coat. The horse stretches his neck forward, enjoying the massage. 

He grabs his tack out of the tack room, white saddle pad, white wraps, black bell boots, and freshly cleaned black tack.

The last few days have been stressful. Yuuri’s been anxious – worried about the public reaction to his massacre of Viktor’s freestyle, worried about what Viktor would think, anxious at the idea of ever riding into a grand prix arena again. It’s one thing to have fun at home, and it’s another to ride into an arena where the world’s eyes are trained on you and massively fuck up because you’re so stressed.

He’s been cleaning to help combat his anxiety. Spending hours at the barn, sweeping the floors, cleaning his tack, pulling History’s mane, painting the entire tack room in one day. It’s mindless, and keep his hands busy and his mind sedated. 

Yuuri’s glad he has horses. Without them, he’s not sure if he’d even get out of bed every day. Probably not. The world is scary, but horses make it a little easier to live in. 

He tacks up History quickly – assembling his various pieces of tack on his body and then strapping his helmet on. His boots are polished and clean – but old. He’s shined them to perfection, but it is impossible to hide the cracking of the leather from years of abuse. 

Bidding goodbye to Yuko with a wave, Yuuri swings into the saddle and puts his earbuds in, scrolling to a playlist and leaving the yard. 

They ride out through the gravel parking lot, History’s ears pricked with the anticipation of getting to go for a gallop. They weave through the lush pastures where horses graze in the early morning sun, often raising their heads to watch the passing horse and rider. History feels rejuvenated, walking along at a quick pace, Yuuri’s reins loose and hands elastic.

He rides best out here. These fields are where he taught History to do lead changes, to leg yield, to do tempi changes. He mimicked them in natural movements, and without the pressure of letters and walls, he can ride at his most relaxed. 

But today, they aren’t out to train, but to simply relax and enjoy. 

Yuuri turns History onto a trail that will lead them on a 10 kilometer loop around the forest surrounding Hatseu, and eventually take them to the beach before returning them to the stable. It’s one of his favorites, especially this early in the morning. They walk for a while, enjoying the peace of the forest and the stillness of the air. And then – out of nowhere, something rustles in the bush just behind them. 

Suddenly spooked, History leaps forward into a canter. Yuuri grabs for the reins, shortening them and pulling back hastily, but his horse is wild from two days of behind locked in his stall and refuses to slow. 

They charge on through the forest path, sweeping past fallen trees and finally into a wide open clearing. Yuuri loosens his reins, giving History his head as they move onto the flat and open expanse. History’s stride opens from a forward canter to a full gallop. The wind rushes, a familiar biting presence on his skin. Yuuri whoops, raising one hand up and allowing it to trail through the air as they run. 

He’s free.

-

When Yuuri returns to the stable, it’s been around an hour and a half. He stopped to let History catch his breath and graze on some fresh grass by the seaside. They’re both relaxed and tired, History’s head stretched low, and Yuuri’s legs kicked easily out of his stirrups. 

The horse that was supposed to move in was supposed to come around now, Yuuri thinks as he checks his watch and swings off History. There’s no trailer in sight, so it’s either already arrived or is about to. If it came through quarantine, it has to be an international client or new import, which is odd, because there hasn’t been any talk from any other clients about importing a horse. 

He leads a sweaty History into the barn aisle, and freezes. 

It’s chaos. 

There’s tack trunks and boxes of equipment piled against the barn walls. All of the horses have their heads out of their stalls, ears pricked with excitement. Minami, Yuko’s working student, is running from the tack room to the office, holding a pen over his head and shouting “I found one!” A shining tack trunk – royal blue embossed with gold – is sitting in the center of the aisle, Cyrillic characters inscribed onto it. 

Piles of fluffy white wraps are piled onto Yuuri’s tack trunk, which is next to History’s stall. He picks them up and sets them on the ground, unclipping his helmet and placing it inside. 

A nicker pulls him his survey. Standing in the cross ties is a massive chestnut horse with a small white star and an expressive, kind eye. It’s ears are pricked and it seems to look right at Yuuri and History, beckoning them closer. 

He’s incredibly fit, defined muscles and a strong topline. His coat shines from a healthy diet and care. Two white, shining socks decorate his hind legs. This isn’t a young horse, or any sort of cheap horse. He’s a well-bred and well-conditioned warmblood – clearly expensive.

The horse is beautiful – and god. He looks almost exactly the same as Viktor’s horse, Makkachin. 

Yuuri leads History into the cross tie next to the strange horse. He takes off his bridle, hangs it on the side, and halters him. 

Strange horse twists it head to stare, giving him an almost expecting look. Yuuri reaches out to stroke it’s nose as he passes on his way to the tack room. He wonders if the owner is here like Yuko predicted. 

Voices stream from the tack room. Yuuri approaches, tentatively pushing the door open. A silver-haired figure leaning on a cane has his back to him, and Yuko is rapidly talking about making space for bridles on the back wall. She has four different bridles in her arms, and is trying to lift a fifth off one of the racks. 

“Um, hi,” Yuuri says, and both figures turn around. 

“You’re back!” Yuko cries. Her cheeks are flushed and voice high. “This is-

“Viktor Nikiforov,” a heavily accented Russian voice replies, “and starting today, Yuuri, I’m going to be your coach.”

For a moment, Yuuri forgets how to breath. Viktor is here – real, actual, human being Viktor, demanding to be his coach. 

“W-what?” Yuuri stammers, reaching a hand out to the tack room door to brace himself. 

Yuko pushes past him, trailing her hand on her waist. “I’ll let you two chat. Viktor, I’m going to print out the board agreement.” She mouths ‘holy shit!’ as she passes Yuuri. He echoes her feelings exactly.

Viktor and Yuuri stand facing each other in the still of the tack room, still smelling faintly of paint fumes. 

“What are you doing here?” Yuuri finally asks. He can’t believe this. He worse literally his oldest sweater today, and it’s covered in stains and horse snot. His breeches are covered in dirt and sag. His boots are dirty and hair messy. He looks nowhere as pristine and elegant as Viktor, who’s wearing fucking Gucci slides. 

“I already told you Yuuri,” Viktor chuckles, stepping closer to lift Yuuri’s chin with his thumb. “I’m here to coach you to a gold medal at European Championships this year. You’re going to ride Makkachin, we’re going to choreograph you a freestyle worthy of your abilities, and you will win.” 

Yuuri’s mouth is stuck open. Viktor just laughs, and leads him out of the tack room with a gentle hand on his back. His other hand holds a cane, which he uses to support his left leg as he walks. 

No wonder Viktor’s here. He’s probably been cooped up in Russia, unable to ride and unwilling to face the press. He probably wanted a change. But why Yuuri? Isn’t he insulted by Yuuri’s degrading attempt at his freestyle? Why isn’t he coaching his barnmate, Junior World Champion, Yuri Plisetsky? Yuuri knows the two have always been close. 

“You’re probably wondering why I shipped my horse and my barn over here with a 3 day notice.” Viktor says. They reach Makkachin and History, still standing in the cross ties. History snorts, and reaches his nose out toward Viktor, suspicious of his cane. Makkachin, on the other hand, just nuzzles his head into his rider’s outstretched hand. “I saw the video of you and this one,” Viktor extends his hand to rub History’s nose, “riding my freestyle from last year.” He pauses. “The last few months, I’ve been looking for some reason to get back into horses. I’ve been having exercise riders hack Makka just to keep him in shape. I couldn’t bear to sell him, even though there’s no chance I’ll ride competitively again. I want to train you to be as good as I know you can be. I want you to win gold at European championships.” 

Yuuri’s breath comes in halting puffs. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says softly as he reaches out to lift Yuuri’s hand. He raises it to his lips and kisses his knuckle softly. Internally, Yuuri explodes. “Did you ever think that you just needed someone to really, finally, push you?”

No, Yuuri thinks, I just need someone to believe in me. 

He smiles nervously anyways, and allows Viktor to lower his hand and release. This is his idol – the person he’s chased for years and years. His inspiration, his ultimate goal. Viktor is a living, breathing human being, here to try and coach him, help him, get him to gold? For what? His own personal victory, perhaps. Another gold medal on the pedestal, one he can’t win in the irons, but only from the ground. 

That’s what it is, Yuuri realizes. He is Viktor’s next gold medal. As much as Viktor says he’s here to help Yuuri, Yuuri is really just here to help him. 

Viktor has turned to Makkachin, running his hand up and down his horse’s soft nose. Idols. Gods. Creatures that existed to Yuuri in a realm outside his own. But he’s here – to help and to coach and to earn a new title. Yuuri can’t bring himself to mind. At worst, he will disappoint an idol who was never really a man to him at all. At best, he will make his coach, his friend, proud. 

“Okay,” Yuuri says. “I’ll do it.”

Viktor’s face blossoms as he turns back around. “Lovely, Yuuri! It’d be rather hard to find Makka a rider here, anyways.” He surveys the scattering of tack and equipment still spread around the barn. “Now, for your first job as my student, let’s have you clean this up, yes?”

With that, he turns away, limping toward Yuko’s office and the pile of forms and loads of posters he’ll no doubt be forced to sign. 

-

That night, in bed, with Viktor a room away, Yuuri replays the video of him riding History. He’s always prided himself in riding freestyles that had especially high interpretation scores, often sacrificing difficulty in lieu of riding a comprehensive test. But still – he doesn’t know what Viktor sees that is different than any of the other top riders in the world. There’s thousands of up and coming juniors jockeying for a shot at being the next great thing. Viktor could have had his choice of National champions begging for entry to the Grand Prix ring. 

But here he is – sleeping under blanket’s that Yuuri’s mother lovingly folded this morning, eating next to Yuuri and complimenting the food, the hospitality, and the warmth of the hot springs. Here he is, breathing in a world where he does not belong, but somehow fitting in perfectly. It almost hurts, how good Viktor is at adapting. When Yuuri had been stateside, it had taken him months to get down his manners, introductions, interactions. It took him over a year before he went to the grocery store without shaking, a year and a half before he could order food over the phone and expect not to be nervous when the delivery man appeared. 

Viktor has none of Yuuri’s anxieties. He’s seen him ride. He possesses none of Yuuri’s fatal flaw. His moves are bold and confident. His hands don’t shake when he salutes. He’s confident and well turned out in front of the press. He always knows what to say to edge a laugh out of those around him. His horse is perfectly trained. 

In the video, History half-passes smoothly. His transitions don’t really look as bad as they feel, Yuuri notices. From far away, you really can’t even tell that he braces slightly. He looks quite good – honestly well turned out for an 8 year old. Yuuri supposes Viktor could have admired his big movements and impressive presence and flown over to work with a horse that could win in the FEI ring. Maybe he’s scouting for Yuri Plisetsky, and History is the horse he’s looking at. Maybe – just maybe – this isn’t about Yuuri at all. He’s probably seen Yuuri’s rounds, his failures, his bad rides, his stressed tears in the warm-up rings. And even if he wasn’t there for all of them, doesn’t it read like a book when Yuuri panics at the slightest pressures? That he talked about puking before all his rides in a magazine once? Perhaps the whole world knows him, sees him as the anxious Japanese dressage rider with a few nice movements and interpretations and nothing more. 

Plussed, Yuuri locks his phone and rolls over, tears watering in his eyes. He lets out a tiny sob, tired and frustrated and overwhelmed. 

He wasn’t looking for a new coach. He wasn’t looking to be thrown back in the international ring – and god – Viktor’s progeny is going to raise so many new issues and anxieties. He just wants to ride, to dance, to make the world watch when he rides into a ring and not because they know he has chronic disaster rounds. 

There’s a sudden knock on the door. 

Yuuri rubs his arm across his eyes, furiously scrubbing the tears off. He fumbles for his glasses and switches on his bedside light. 

The door opens slightly. 

“Yuuri?” An unfamiliar voice calls. He sits up sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. The figure slips further inside. “Can I come in?”

Viktor stands before him, hands folded inside the front pocket of his hoodie. Fuck, Yuuri hopes that Viktor doesn’t notice there’s photos of him on his wall. 

“Uh, yes?” Yuuri answers. 

He seems to take that as an invitation to enter and sits on the edge of Yuuri’s bed. “Have you been crying, Yuuri?”

Yuuri chuckles, and wipes under his eyes. He doesn’t deny it. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Viktor continues, “that we could get to know each other better, yes?”

No, is Yuuri’s immediate response. Not now, not here, not in his bed at midnight the day Viktor arrived. But he stays still.

“Tell me,” Viktor’s voice is just a whisper now. Yuuri’s teenage fantasies see Viktor leaning in for a passionate embrace. His current fantasies are of not embarrassing himself beyond repair. “About your favorite place in the world. Your favorite food. What you do for fun.”

“Uh,” Yuuri stumbles. He pushes the covers of his bed down and sits cross-legged. Viktor joins him, sitting at the opposite end of the bed. “I ride. When I’m not riding, I’m working around the barn or here. I love katsudon.”

The room falls silent, and Viktor keeps his head cocked, as if he expects Yuuri to keep talking. 

“I’m not very interesting Viktor, I’m sorry. I still don’t know why you flew all the way over here to coach me.”

Viktor looks puzzled. “I see something great in you. You inspire me. You charm me, even.” 

Yuuri snorts. “I charm you?”

“You,” Viktor creeps closer, pressing his thumb to Yuuri’s closed lips, “have been charming me since I rode out of the ring at Europeans and you rode in.”

Yuuri smiles, a hesitant, soft smile. “I’ve looked up to you since I was a kid. You were always my senior, the one with better rounds, better freestyles, better coaches, and better scores. I just wanted to be like you, but it seemed like I could never get there.” 

“It didn’t fall in my lap, Yuuri,” Viktor says softly, “and I know your success hasn’t either.”

They are quiet. Yuuri knows. He knows. Viktor started riding by paying off lessons cleaning stalls until Yakov Feltsman saw him at regionals and picked him up. Viktor trained Makkachin from the ground up. When his parents wouldn’t give him money for nationals, he raised and pinched and borrowed it himself. Yuuri knows – he’s seen the interviews and read the articles Viktor has written. 

Viktor reaches out, and takes Yuuri’s hand in his. “I think we are the same.”

But are they? On what level? They both ride? They both had to work for their success? That isn’t a completely exclusive thing in the riding world. Yuuri knows plenty of people who have had to struggle for success. 

“Are we? You can ride, and win,” Yuuri says, “I can ride, and choke.” 

Viktor, surprisingly, lays down in bed next to Yuuri. He follows, slowly, laying on top of the covers. Viktor is on his back, staring at the ceiling. After minutes of silence, Yuuri reaches over to flick out the light. Viktor is still completely silent. He takes his glasses off slowly, folding them and placing them on his bedside table. For a long time, he cannot sleep. He’s nervous, laying next to the person he’s loved, in some ways, his whole life. At the same time, he hopes Viktor never leaves. He hopes he stays. 

Just as Yuuri is about to fall asleep, he hears a soft voice whisper next to him. “I hope you will know me as more than that.”

And then they are both asleep.

-

Yuuri takes back every comment he ever made about Makkachin seeming like an easy ride. 

The large chestnut sits heavy in his hands, giving him a lazy trot, strung out and flat. If Yuuri is really going to qualify for Europeans this year, he needs to score above 65% in at least 2 CDI 5* competitions. There’s a 7 month qualifying period, and he only has a few months until the qualifying season opens. To win, he’d need to score above 80% - an admirable feat that Yuuri has never been close to. 

Viktor is sitting in the judges booth, watching Yuuri struggle to get Makkachin together. Every time Yuuri watched Viktor ride, it seemed like he and Makka were the most effortless horse and rider combo in the world – and that’s what got them so many wins. Their effortless steps and perfect communication allowed them to do their signature move – Viktor doing all his 1-tempi lead changes one handed. 

Right now, Yuuri can’t imagine even trotting one handed, better off weaving across the arena with lead changes every stride. 

They trot by the mirrors, and Yuuri winces. His body is tense and braced, Makka is leaning against the bit. He looks nothing like the beautiful creature Yuuri is used to idolizing through a computer screen. 

He asks for the canter, and Makka obliges half heartedly. His canter is sluggish, but his movements still large. Yuuri feels like he’s riding an unruly washing machine. Still, Viktor says nothing. He pulls the horse up in front of the judge’s box and looks up to Viktor. He has his hand on his chin, and is watching with softly squinted eyes. 

Yuuri clears his throat and taps the headset microphone. 

“Can you hear me?” He asks. Viktor nods. 

“Yes,” he replies. “Keep riding around. Just get a feel for him.”

Yuuri nods, wincing, and shortens the expensive leather and squeezes Makka into a forward walk. The horse drops his head against his hands. Yuuri bumps him up sharply. Makka throws his head, and then just plunges it back down again. He pushes him back into a trot. The trot is half-hearted. Yuuri flicks the whip against his side. Makka kicks out sharply, but makes no change to his level of effort. Yuuri asks for an extended trot, but the strung-out horse just falls off balance and breaks into the canter. He feels like a beginner again, riding horses far above his level and unsure what to do with them. Even sharper is the string that he knows Makkachin can do everything he’s asking, probably better than any other horse in the world. But he won’t do it with Yuuri. 

The feeling in inferiority arises again. Over the last few days, he’s been surrounded by Viktor’s golden halo. Viktor rides a bike while Yuuri runs, always just a little ahead of him, pushing him to catch up. He brings Yuuri weights that are just a little too heavy for him in the gym, rides in tack far too expensive for Yuuri’s budget, and now this – failing to get Viktor’s gold medal winning horse to even trot. 

Makka walks. Yuuri loosens the reins and allows him to stretch down, turning back to look at Viktor.

“Again,” Viktor instructs. “Pick him up and put him together. Ride him into your hand. Start at the walk.” 

‘I’m trying,’ Yuuri wants to shout. ‘I’ve been out here for a half hour, riding like an absolute fool.’

He listens, because it’s Viktor. He shortens the reins, and presses his spurs into Makka’s sides. The gelding swishes his tail in annoyance. He still leans against Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri jiggles his fingers, trying to raise Makka’s head and get him off his hand. The horse just rows heavily, making his walk bigger with every squeeze of Yuuri’s heels but refusing to come under his hand. 

“Flex left and right. Quickly – two steps per side,” Viktor instructs. Yuuri complies, moving the horse’s head back and forth quickly. Makka leans less, forced to carry his head on his own. “Kick forward each time you release to switch the bend.” He nudges his heels against Makka’s sides – tiny little brushes of heel. Suddenly forced to move forward and flex, Makka rises under himself, lifting his head and back. For the first time in a half hour, Yuuri feels like he’s maybe, maybe, riding a Grand Prix horse. “Now move the shoulders with the neck. Do a few steps of shoulder-fore on each side. Stay off the rail, Yuuri, you’re not 12.” 

He quickly steers Makka away from the outside border of the ring. “Without your hands. Ride from your seat and legs.” Swallowing, Yuuri does so. He moves Makka’s shoulders back and forth. The big horse stumbles over himself a few times before getting the rhythem down. He’s surprisingly inflexible and stiff. “He’s not easy, is he?” Viktor laughs from above. 

Yuuri looks up, eyes wide. 

“My horse is a little shit.” Viktor says. “He’s stiff, lazy, heavy, and dull. It takes a half hour of warmup before he even considers doing anything, and if he isn’t in the mood, he won’t do it at all.” 

Yuuri halts. Viktor limps down the booth stairs, picks up his cane at the bottom, and enters the arena. “Make a circle around me. We’re going back to basics, because Makka can win you a gold medal if you can teach him to cooperate with you.” 

He begins to walk, making a large circle around Viktor. With his coach this close, Yuuri stiffens, tightening his lower leg. He tries to pull it back further to sit in the correct position, and catches Makka with his spur on accident. The horse kicks out, tossing his head at the unexpected interruption. 

“Calmly, Yuuri,” Viktor instructs. Yuuri grits his teeth. He feels dumb, walking on a circle because he can’t get his horse on the bit. “Do the same you did earlier – move his shoulders and push him forward. 

Yuuri complies, still stiff in his body. It reflects in Makka. He rises up into Yuuri’s hand, finally walking correctly, but there is tension through both of their bodies. Viktor just watches for a round. He makes them leg yield in and out of the circle next, moving Makka off his hand and leg. Yuuri still sits tight in the tack, unused to Viktor’s coaching style and the unfamiliar and difficult horse he’s riding. Viktor offers little tips here and there, but he mainly just expects Yuuri to do. They do some extended to collected walk transitions next, which greatly improve the quality of the walk, but fail to loosen the tenseness in Yuuri’s back and Makka’s shoulders. 

After a half hour of walk work, Viktor calls it off. Yuuri swings off, dejected, patting Makka’s neck. The horse isn’t even sweaty. 

They walk back to the barn in silence. Viktor looks down at his phone the whole time, typing away. Yuuri looks at the ground, watching his clean boots grow dusty with the arena dirt. Surely, Viktor is going to leave now. Take Makkachin back to Russia, find a new progeny to coach that can ride his horse correctly. They make it back to the cross ties, and Viktor sits on the tack trunk across the aisle and watches and Yuuri gently untacks Makkachin. He carefully hangs up the horse’s bridle, rinsing the bit before hanging it out to try. He puts ice packs on Makkachin’s legs to ease swelling and prevent injury. He curries out his coat carefully, even though he didn’t get sweaty or dirty. All the time, Viktor says nothing. 

“Did you know, Yuuri,” Viktor finally says, “That the first month I had Makkachin, I couldn’t get him to canter at all?” 

Yuuri says nothing. 

Viktor rises from his place on the tack trunk, and walks forward to stroke Makkachin’s face. “I bought him as a 2 year old. He was incredibly flashy, bold, and clearly talented. I couldn’t understand why his owners were selling him so cheap, but I didn’t want to ask questions, so I got him sight-unseen.”

I know, Yuuri thinks, I’m your biggest fan, remember?

“He was lazy, piggish, and out of shape. He kicked when you rode him and refused to do anything I asked.” Viktor reaches out to rest his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Yuuri, I used to dread coming to the barn to ride. I was used to made horses who loved to work, and here was my horse, my first horse, that seemed to hate everything I was doing to him.” 

Yuuri swallows. He didn’t know that. Viktor had always been the idol that never gave up, that never faltered that fought boldly through challenges and never stepped down. 

“It took me a year to get a lead change on him. But when he realized that he didn’t just have to run around in circles all day, and that he got to do things that were more fun, he started wanting to work. He’s incredibly smart, but also stupidly lazy. You just have to keep him interested.” 

He stops brushing. “Viktor, just because you got him to be a world-class horse doesn’t mean I’m going to be able to. What if I can’t keep him interested?”

I’m not you, Yuuri thinks, Viktor, I’m not you.

“Oh Yuuri,” Viktor says softly. “I already told you. When I saw your freestyle on your other horse, you didn’t have to do it perfectly to make it mesmerizing. It wasn’t beautiful because they were the cleanest lead changes or steepest half-passes ever seen. It was beautiful because you rode a 1-ton animal to an opera song, and you made it look like you were part of the music. I’m here because I can’t ride. I’m here because I’ll never ride again, to quote the doctors. I’m here because I think you can give Makkachin the ride he always deserved, that I always wanted to give him, but I could never really feel.” He pauses. Yuuri’s whole body feels frozen. “You have something that is impossible to teach – feel. I can teach you how to ride a perfect passage/piaffe transition, but I could never train myself, or anyone else, how to feel the music and the horse. But you can. So I’m here.” 

Yuuri didn’t think his ride on History was all that mesmerizing. He rode it because he was looking for a reason to get back on a horse and ride a test. He needed a reason to get excited to be in the saddle, and Viktor had been that reason when he was a kid, and he made it the reason now. Yuuri wasn’t looking to drag Viktor into being his coach, or to ride his world-class horse. All he wanted was inspiration, and Viktor was that to him. 

But how does he articulate that? “I – I didn’t ride your freestyle to show you up, Viktor,” Yuuri tries. “I rode it because you’ve always been my inspiration, and in the darkest time – after losing Europeans and making a fool of myself, after losing my best friend and my teammate, you were the light that told me to keep riding. I rode it because I needed to feel what made me fall in love with dressage. The dance, the peace, the beauty that I lost on the competitive circuit. This is the only place I feel like home. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you were? Lesser?” 

Viktor’s eyes widen. “You didn’t make me feel like I was lesser, Yuuri. I mean, come on,” a smirk takes over his face. “Your high score is a 75.098%. Mine’s an 83.98.”

They both laugh, the mood considerably lightened. Yuuri feels better, just slightly better. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, “I never thanked you for coming out here and giving me a chance. Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

Viktor nods. 

“I know you won’t.”

 

-

 

Yuuri is his room a few nights later, headphones settled securely over his ears, when Viktor comes charging in. 

He’s in a tracksuit, hair messy, as if he’s been asleep, but looks frantic. 

“Yuuri!” He declares, “is there room for another visitor here?” 

Yuuri presses pause – he’s been scouring the internet for the music he wants to use for his freestyle. 

“Here?” He clarifies. “Like, in the bedroom here? In my bed here? Or in the inn?’

Viktor glides cross the room. “Here, like Hatsetu. Like in the onsen.”

“Um,” Yuuri responds. Is Viktor bringing someone from home? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? A different student? His stomach tightens. Today, he started feeling like Viktor was going to stay. After two weeks of jogging around Hatseu, lifting weights, and translating conversations around the dinner table, Yuuri can’t imagine himself without Viktor. 

It goes like this, now. 

Viktor wakes up before him, and is always downstairs by the time Yuuri drags himself out of bed at 8. He’s sipping a cup of coffee and laughing with Hiroko, or prodding smiles out of a hungover Mari. They go for a jog, Viktor on a bike, and while Yuuri pants, Viktor talks about his plans for Yuuri’s freestyle (everything he suggests sounds impossible on any horse). Sometimes, they lift weights in the small onsen gym, and other days, Yuuri takes him to Minako’s ballet studio and they stretch together, laughing at how inflexible Viktor is compared to Yuuri. 

‘In another life,’ Minako laughs, ‘Yuuri was a dancer.’

When Makkachin was still adjusting to the jetlag, Yuuri would ride History while Viktor coached him, and then they would groom Makka together, the chestnut leaning into the attention. Viktor isn’t the one-dimensional idol Yuuri always saw him as. He’s softer than Yuuri thought he would be, handsy, even. He’s easy to hand out critiques when Yuuri is in the saddle, but on the ground, he’s all soft smiles and gentle touches when he slips by him in the aisles.  
One day, Yuuri catches hims watching the video of his winning freestyle ride from the year before and tearing up, knuckles hard-gripped around the cane in his hand. He sees the limp in Viktor’s every step, watches the way his eyes trace Yuuri hungrily when he steps into the saddle. He sees how Viktor hides his desire to get on when Yuuri can’t grasp a concept on Makka. He watches how Viktor bites his lower lip when someone talks about his past, and how he closes up and gives a generic answer every time someone asks if he’ll ever be able to ride again. 

Another visitor from Russia has to be someone close to Viktor, and Yuuri is selfish. He doesn’t want to share Viktor and his attention, his praise, his sometimes shitty coaching with anyone else. He doesn’t want to watch Viktor’s person eat katsudon in front of him, elbowing each other with inside jokes like they do. 

“You know Yuri Plisetsky, right?”

Yuuri’s heart sinks. Yuri is Viktor’s barnmate from Russia, the world’s leading junior rider who is breaking into the senior ring this year with his horse, Tyger. They were both coached by Yakov Feltsman, both brought to greatness under the cold Russian winters and critical eye of one of the world’s top trainers. 

Of course Viktor would want to bring in another student. Yuuri isn’t riding like he’ll win, or come anywhere close to the podium at European Championships. Plisetsky has been dominating the junior field for years, and will no doubt be a top contender this year in the senior division. His horse is incredibly flashy, and the two dominate any ring they enter in terms of presence and medals. Viktor would want a successful first year as a trainer in order to build up his reputation. Viktor would want to bring in the Russian child prodigy, who he’s known forever, to be his star pupil. 

“Apparently he’s just shipped his horse to Yuko’s barn completely out of nowhere,” Viktor says from the doorway. He enters the room slowly, as if he’s afraid of Yuuri. 

Don’t be so timid, Yuuri thinks, you’re about to tell me I’m not worth coaching.

“It seems I’ve forgotten I owe him a freestyle, and he’s coming to collect.” Viktor sits at the edge of Yuuri’s bed. “Yakov is pissed. He doesn’t know who Yuri got to sign the FEI papers to get Tyger over here, but whoever it is will probably die soon.” He shuffles nervously. “I didn’t invite him over, if that’s what you’re thinking. But can he stay here? I’d like to keep an eye on him. Yuri can be… a lot.”

“Um,” Yuuri says again, because he’s a super intelligent human who totally can function like a normal human being. He’s tempted to say no for a moment, to save Viktor for himself, to be selfish and jealous and send Yuri back immediately. “I’ll ask my parents, but it’s been really quiet around here lately, and that should be fine. When’s he arriving?” He says instead, because no matter how insecure he is about Viktor leaving him to coach another student, for realizing he’s just another subpar rider and take off, he could never turn Viktor down. 

A smile breaks across Viktor’s face. “Thank you, Yuuri! He lands tomorrow, and Tyger a few days after him.” He looks incredibly relieved, as if Yuuri ever would have said no to anything he asked for. “I’m really sorry about this,” he continues. “Since it’s short notice, and all.” 

Yuuri hums softly, and just spins the laptop around. “Speaking of freestyles, I’ve been playing with a few soundtracks for my own.” 

Viktor creeps closer to look at the screen, intoxicatingly close.

“I commissioned a friend from university to compose a score that encompassed my riding career thus far. I was going to use it this year for Vicchan, but,” Yuuri’s voice trails off. “Unless you have something better in mind, maybe we could play with this?” He hands Viktor his headphones and presses play. 

It isn’t an incredibly dramatic score, which is what Viktor has always ridden Makkachin to. Vicchan was a far different horse, and a far different ride, but now, more than ever, he feels like the music fits his story. 

Viktor taps along on his thigh to the changes in beat. Yuuri watches how tiny divets form in the fabric of his inner thigh where his hand grazes. He has to force himself to swallow and look away. 

Yuuri treasures this. The stillness of the room, which echoes in comfort. Viktor’s frequent visits to his room, even late at night, chatting about horses and riders in the Senior division. Eventually, Viktor spotted the poster of him that was hastily shoved under Yuuri’s desk, and, with a frown, repined it to his bullitan board. ‘I’m hurt,’ he’d lamented, ‘that you would crinkle me like this.’

Being with Viktor had been natural and easy for the last few weeks. He wonders how their dynamic will change with Russia’s rising star entering the mix. He wonders if Viktor will return home with him after he rides an impeccable freestyle and Yuuri turns up last, again. 

“I like it,” Viktor says, lowering the headphones. “I think it’s very emotional, and raw, and it’s nothing Makkachin has ever been ridden to. There’s a lot we can do with this.”

Yuuri smiles and takes the computer back. “So you said you owe Yuri a freestyle?”

“It would appear so, from the amount of screaming he did over the phone.” Viktor shrugs. “I guess I promised it to him a few years ago, when he had been doubling up on rides to progress faster.” Viktor traces Yuuri’s bedspread. “Yuri was hoping that I would stay in Russia to help coach him.”

“Oh,” the blow hits Yuuri and sticks to the inside of his ribcage. Replaceable, a voice from inside hisses. 

“Da. He does not forget my promises so easily.” Viktor looks contemplative. “Hey, can you send me the file of the music you want to use? I have an idea.”

Yuuri emails it to him, chest still tight. He doesn’t dare speak. The Russian Yuri is coming here to take Viktor home. He is going to come, stay for a few weeks, have a freestyle built for him, and convince Viktor to return home with him. He thinks back to Yuri’s freestyle last year. He remembers watching it and being captured in an almost horrified way at the vicious way Yuri rides his freestyles. Not to his horse – but to the music. He devours the arena, challenges the music, and always rode for the highest technical score. His horse, Tyger, is an impressive bay with no markings and bold movements. Yuuri remembers him belonging to Georgi Popovich before he bought a new horse in the middle of a mental breakdown. It was quite the international news. 

Russian Yuri can destroy Yuuri all day on difficulty of movements, and confidence, and the striking boldness that captivates an audience. Yuuri supposes that he could defeat him on technicalities like accuracy and interpretation, but those are 2 of the factors that make up a good freestyle. 

Viktor shifts off the bed suddenly, and Yuuri startles. “Our guest will be arriving tomorrow. I would sleep and prepare yourself him. We will both need the rest.”

Yuuri nods, chest still tight. Viktor slides out the door of his bedroom, leaving with a gentle, ‘good night, Yuuri.” He lays down, sleepless and confined to anxiety.

-

Yuri Plisetsky is a Lot. He appears in a maelstrom, shouting about his equipment and clothes and horse. Yuuri spend the entire morning running up suitcases to his bedroom and frantically trying to keep up with Plisetsky and his mother’s frantic orders. He dreads the day when his horse comes in.

Meanwhile, Viktor drinks coffee and chats with the guests, seemingly unconcerned with the ball of blond fury harping around the onsen. It’s probably because he’s used to it – Yuri and Viktor have been riding together for the last 5 years under Yakov. Riding at the same barn for so long would automatically bring them close together, and even moreso, they frequently showed together qualifying for Europeans. Viktor has coached and mentored Yuri through his chaos- but Yuuri has not, and he’s put off.

Plisetsky acts exactly how he rides – bold, challenging, and impersonal. He is quick to laugh at Yuuri’s form, criticizes the onsen, and barks orders more than he speaks. It takes Yuuri a few hours to realize he’s incredibly stressed, which he discovers when he steps outside to breathe, and Yuri is on the phone, yelling in English about making sure his horse gets his supplements. 

Tyger won’t be released from quarantine for another two days, so of course Yuri is stressed. He slightly forgives him for his short temper. Quarantine is always a restless time. Having the pride of your life trapped in a stall with people you don’t know, cared for by inexperienced hands, and handled by strangers is a stressful experience. But then again, everything about showing was a stressful experience for Yuuri. 

“How are you handling the jet lag?” Yuuri asks, to make conversation. 

Russian Yuri spins around and slams his thumb onto his phone, presumably to end the call. He’s red-faced and has his teeth bared. 

“Listen,” Yuri snarls, “I have no idea why Viktor flew his and Makkachin’s asses over here to coach you, but it won’t be for long. I saw your rounds at Europeans last year, and I know that this year, I’m going to destroy you in the Senior division, and Viktor is going to come home to Russia, make me a freestyle, and help coach where he belongs. Understand?” 

Yuuri raises his hands and backs against the wall behind him. “I didn’t ask him to come,” he says, “I’m sorry if I took him from you.” 

Yuri follows Yuuri, pressing into his face, “I’m going to prove I’m the better rider than you. I’m going to take Viktor back to Russia, with the people he knows, so that he can recover and train. Got it?” His breath forms white clouds s he shouts. 

“Uh,” Yuuri stars, but Plisetsky backs off with a curt ‘good.’ He turns around and opens the back door, Yuuri slowly following behind.

“Yuuri! Yuri!” Viktor calls when they return inside. From around the corner, Mari groans and steps out of the kitchen, two chicken breasts in her hands. 

“God,” she groans, “you’re confusing me so much. It’s not even noon and I need a drink. Every time I hear someone shout, ‘Yuuri’ I come out to see what my little brother did this time, and it’s always the wrong Yuuri.” Mari rests against the doorframe and holds a chicken breast out to Yuri in a demonstrative pose. “From now on, you’re Yurio. So I don’t have to deal with this anymore.” With that, she turns and retreats into the kitchen. 

Yuri-Yurio, splutters. Viktor breaks into a grin and pats the younger boy’s head. “Yuuri, Yurio, we’re going to the barn. I have something I want to try with you two.” 

Yuuri falters. He has a lot to do to help with making dinner for the guests, and opens his mouth to protest. Mari leans back around the corner of the kitchen. “In that case, get out of the house!” She notices Yuuri’s conflicted eyes and rolls her own before disappearing. 

Viktor stands before him while Yurio stomps off, muttering something about changing. He’s artful in his fitted slacks and neatly combed hair. “Today,” Viktor teases, “the real training begins.”

-

‘Whatever brought Viktor here will surely drive him away now,’ Yuuri thinks as he watches Yurio mount Shōri, who has been hastily groomed for his moment of revived glory. Meanwhile, Yuuri holds Makkachin’s reins as the horse grapples to chew them from his hands. He mounts quickly, follow Yurio to ride to the center of the ring, where Viktor rests against his cane. 

Yesterday, Viktor let Yuuri do his first lead change on Makkachin. In the meantime, Yurio’s grand prix mount will be here in a few days, who he is well practiced on. 

“You are both very practiced athletes,” Viktor starts. Yurio. “Since you both want to be coached by me, I have devised a plan to test you.”

Fuck. Literally. Fuck. Yurio is far younger, but is far more used to his ride, and has twice the guts Yuuri does. He shortens the reins nervously. Makkachin shifts under him as a result. Plus, Yurio and Viktor worked and rode together back in Russia. Yuuri’s seen Viktor standing in for Yakov during Yurio’s warmup ride, coaching and talking to the boy before shows. He’s a shoo-in for Europeans this year – there’s almost no way he won’t score the 65% he needs to qualify, and with the way he was riding last season, it’d be a miracle if he didn’t make it to the freestyle round. 

“You are both going to help me choreograph your freestyles. You’re going to ride them, in a competition format, and the combination that wins will be the one I train.”

Yuuri feels sick. No wonder Viktor asked for a copy of his freestyle music. Now he’s going to get royally destroyed by a 15 year old riding the freestyle the man of his dreams choreographed for him. Excellent. 

“Yuuri-” Viktor turns to him. “I want you to take Makkachin out for a hack. I’m going to start by working with Yurio.” He turns to Yurio, saying something about giving him a calm piece that he needs to embody to ride correctly. Yuuir supposes he’s starting with Yurio because he knows him better, and he’s a breath of fresh air compared to Yuuri’s frustrating rides. He’s just begun to get Makkachin to cooperate with him, learning how to handle the touchy horse through the complicated movements and inspire him to work. Viktor’s compliments are still few and far between, however. Yuuri turns Makka toward the gate, watching Yurio start working as he leaves the arena. 

Shōri is old, but cooperates easily with Yurio. They pick up a trot easily and start working around the arena. It looks nothing like Yuuri’s first ride on Makkachin, disillusioned and messy. Yurio has his characteristic bold confidence that he transmits to his rides. His mount look more alive than he has in years. Yuuri’s heart sinks. As soon as Tyger arrives, Yurio will be unstoppable. 

The sun is glimmering through the morning clouds when Yuuri rides out. He takes Makkachin down his favorite trail, because he isn’t sure what else he’s supposed to do. While he’s walking the world’s best grand prix horse down a forest trail, Viktor is coaching Yurio to win the Grand Prix Final. 

His chest clenches. He squeezes Makkachin into a trot. The horse, not having been ridden outside of the arena in ages, tosses his head in excitement and steps into an excited gait. God, Yuuri thinks, Viktor told me that he came here because I inspired him. He made me believe I was worth training, if even just for a week. Makka stretches his legs forward, and into an extended trot. The trail is smooth and flat, so Yuuri edges him into a canter. But now Yurio is here, and suddenly Viktor wants to make us battle it out to see which of us he’s going to train. The trail opens onto the forest clearing, and Yuuri lightens his seat, standing up slightly in his stirrups, and allows Makkachin to gallop forward. Makkachin snorts in surprise, as if he hasn’t been asked to stretch out and gallop forward before. Then again, Yuuri doubts he has. Russia is cold, and St. Petersburg is built. Viktor probably never took Makka on trail. 

He's so smart, Yuuri thinks. How could they keep him in a little box all day and expect him to do his best?

“WOAH!” Yuuri shouts, abruptly pulling Makkachin up. The horse startles, compressing from a gallop to a trot in a matter of steps. He snorts, bending his neck perfectly and prancing in place. Yuuri shortens his reins and taps his legs against the horse’s sides. Makkachin, energized from the run and excitement, begins piaffing. Yuuri opens his left rein and keeps the pressure on the horse’s sides with his legs. Makkachin rotates sideways, still lifting each foot up and down. They rotate 360 degrees before Yuuri pushes him on. Makkachin bounds forward down the forest trail, passaging. It’s an incredible feeling – Makka’s legs hover before he sets them down, showing off his strong body and fancy movements. He’s bouncier than Yuuri expected – he has so much more power than History does yet, and more than Vicchan ever did. They passage on for a few more lengths before Yuuri closes his legs and asks for an extended trot. The energy that had been missing from all of Yuuri’s rides in the ring is suddenly there, energized by the new surroundings and the softness of Yuuri’s aids. They fly forward, Yuuri laughing as they trot. Makkachin snorts at a log on the side of the road, his ears pricked forward. 

He doesn’t feel like a machine anymore. In the ring, the horse feels robotic – stiff, lazy, dull. Out here, he’s bright and vibrant, the horse that Yuuri always saw Viktor ride. He remembers Viktor’s words that he always had to push his horse to perform – but here they are, flying down a forest path, Makkchin giving him everything he has for the sheer fun of it. When they pull up to rest, both horse and rider are sweaty from the exertion, but far more relaxed than they were upon leaving the stable. 

 

Makkachin’s legs are covered in mud from splashing through puddles on the trails. Yuuri has a green slime stain on his shirt from where Makka rubbed against him when they had stopped to graze. Both of their boots are dearly in need of cleaning, but when the duo enter, Viktor feels something softer enter along with them. He’s sitting on the tack trunk in front of History’s stall, letting the young horse nuzzle the back of his neck while he messes around on his computer. Viktor has ideas for the two entering the barn. But for those ideas to work, he needs them to find different sides of themselves.

Yurio is brushing down Shōri in the cross ties, both of them sweaty and dirty while Yuuri hums as he puts Makkachin in the ties next to Yurio and begins to untack. Viktor watches carefully. He knows that Yuuri was Celestino’s working student back in the states, it’s something Yuuri’s told him about in their late night chat sessions. It shows when he cares for Makkachin. Yurio’s movements are robotic and clumsy at times when he’s hefting equiptment or wrapping polo wraps, but Yuuri’s movements are seamless. He flows from step to step, swinging tack around and cleaning up effortlessly. 

Hidden strengths, Viktor thinks to himself, tapping on the side of his laptop. Yurio notices Viktor’s gaze, tracing over Yuuri like thick lines of honey. He spins away. 

“What are you so happy about, pig? Given up already?” Yurio shouts as Yuuri hums and finishing rolling his last leg wrap. 

Yuuri looks startled, but recovers quickly. He just shrugs. He doesn’t respond to Yurio’s words. Tomorrow, he will probably have to ride with Viktor, but if he can get Makkachin to have half of the spark he had on trail today, Yuuri think he may be able to really give Yurio a run for his money. The problem isn’t necessarily that Makkachin is a bad horse for Yuuri – he’s a bad ride in general. He’s bored of arenas, and movements, and everything he already does perfectly. Trail today was probably the first time in a long time that Makka was happy to be ridden. Yuuri just needs to find a way to capture that energy and bring it to his riding, and then he’ll have a feasible task ahead of him. 

He begins cleaning tack while he waits for Makkachin to dry. Yurio shoves past him, checking his shoulder against Yuuri’s before disappearing into the tack room. 

“Did you have a nice ride?” Yuuri calls to the retreating form, moving from cleaning the grass-slobbered bits to the leather of the bridle. Yurio emerges from the room a few moments later, hands empty of the expensive saddle he was carrying earlier. Yurio looks every ounce the Russian Tiger he’s known as – messy blonde hair tosses in his face, a polo with his name in Cyrillic embroidered onto the back, above an image of a tiger, and his long dressage whip tucked into his patent boots. He leans against the doorframe, watching Yuuri clean. 

“We have grooms for that at home,” he nods to the soap Yuuri is using. He pauses cleaning to look up. Yurio’s face is unreadable. “And my ride was fine. It will be better when my horse arrives. With Tyger, you have no chance of winning, Katsuki.” This time, he doesn’t storm off. Yurio stays pressed against the doorframe, watching and calculating as Yuuri returns to cleaning the bridle.

He isn’t sure what to say. He thinks he has a good chance of winning whatever challenge Viktor is plotting, if he can pull himself together. If he can calm his nerves for just seven minutes, long enough to finish the test, he could win. He could prove to Viktor that the last two weeks haven’t been a waste, that he’s worth riding his horse, and that he can win the Grand Prix Final. But how does he tell Yurio that?

“It calms me,” Yuuri finally says. “Cleaning tack. And we uh – don’t have grooms. I was a working student in Detroit, so I’m used to this.” He finishes cleaning the headstall and moves on to his saddle. “Why do you want Viktor to come back with you to Russia so badly? What about Yakov?”

Yurio snorts. “How do you think it feels to have your mentor pick up and fly across the ocean for a man he’s never met – someone who flubbed his rides at Europeans last year and you know you could beat?”

It sits heavy on his chest. Yuuri draws a deep breath in. “You tell me, Yurio,” he says gently. Perhaps, if he allows Yurio to talk, they won’t be enemies, but closer to training mates. Yurio is going to be here for at least a few weeks, he feels like he should make an effort to get the boy to tolerate him. 

“I have looked up to Viktor for a very long time,” Yurio says slowly, as if he is counting his words. “This year, I was excited to ride against him. Viktor is one of the best riders in the world, but I have a passion he has long since lost. I was excited to beat him.” Me too, Yuuri thinks. “When he got injured, he told me he’d make it up to me by coaching me through my freestyle.” He licks his lips. His fists clench and unclench. “Then imagine my surprise, when one day, I show up to the barn to see Makkachin being loaded onto a shipping trailer, being flown to Japan as a ride for Grand Prix failure Katsuki Yuuri. I thought you bought him, and I was pissed that you’d take him from Viktor. Then I found out that Viktor was going with him, and I was even more angry that you’d taken Viktor from-

Yurio’s voice cuts off. “It’s nothing,” he says suddenly. “I have things to do. Move.” He picks himself up from off the tack room door and hurries away, grabbing Shōri’s halter and pulling her into her stall. Yuuri watches him go, his actions frenzied. 

He finishes the sentence for Yurio. 

‘You’d taken Viktor from me.’

-

Yuuri is struggling. Viktor’s hand is rising higher and higher from it’s place on Yuuri’s calf with every glass of saki he drinks.

Spoiler alert – he’s five drinks of saki in. 

Yurio sits across the table, quietly munching on his dinner and watching Viktor with a scowl, who is currently reenacting the first time he ever met Makkachin. 

“He just!” Viktor cries, lifting both hands in the air (and off Yuuri’s thigh, tragically) “came right up to me in the paddock!” The other patrons of the onsen seem less than enthused at Viktor’s story. Truth be told, Yuuri has heard it several times before from the articles and journals he’s read about Viktor, but it’s sweet to hear him tell it again anyways. Viktor reaches down to have another sip of his drink. “And ever since that day, we’ve spent all our time together, working to be the best.” 

You are the best, Yuuri thinks. Or at least, you were. To me, you’ll always be the best.

“I miss him,” Viktor says slowly. “I miss riding.” He settles his hand back onto Yuuri’s knee. His presence is comfortable. Yuuri aches to lean into it, to wrap his arm around Viktor’s waist and reassure him, promise him that he’ll ride again someday. “The doctors told me that the chances of riding again are incredibly slim,” he says, quieter. “The cartilage in my knee is almost gone, and the tendons will always be weak.” 

Yuuri raises his hand slightly to rest it on top of Viktor’s. He squeezes. Viktor’s hand shakes slightly, probably from a combination of alcohol and memory. He downs his drink with his spare hand. Yurio, still perched across the table, grimaces. 

“Yuuri?” Viktor turns his head sharply toward the boy at his side. “Do you think I’ll ever ride again?” 

“Enough!” Yurio barks, standing up. He’s willowy and sharp, all pointed edges and spikes suddenly. He darts around the table and grabs Viktor’s arm. “It’s time for bed, old man.” 

Yuuri stammers. Viktor still stares at him, piercing blue eyes boring into him. “Yes,” Yuuri chokes out. “I think you’ll ride again someday.” 

He isn’t sure if Viktor hears. Yurio is pulling him out of the room, talking in rapidfire Russian. Viktor still looks sad, the same haunted, empty look in his eyes that he gets when he thinks no one is watching. 

Yuuri has noticed it a few times. 

The first was when Yuuri got his first clean, energized, nice lead change on Makka. Viktor’s words had been all positives, but his eyes had been flat. He looked the way that Yuuri did when Yuuri had watched the victory gallop at Europeans – no longer hungry, but aching. Defeated, even when standing in the face of victory. 

Then there was the time Yuuri had emerged from the tack room, wiping his hands on a dirty towel to get the tack polish off. Viktor had set him to cleaning all the tack that was hanging as a punishment for catching Makka in the mouth during a half pass. He was resting on a tack trunk, running his hands down Makkachin’s neck, crooning softly to the horse in Russian. Makka seemed mesmerized, his big brown eyes half closed in pleasure. Viktor spoke softly, just a murmur, but Yurri could hear the sadness in his voice from a long ways away. 

And then earlier today – when Yuuri had rode in from his trail ride, all smiles and pats for the lovely horse. Viktor had seemed pleased, but sitting there, staring at him, there was a layer that he had never seen before. Viktor looked caught off guard, unprepared for the sight of Makkachin happy with a different rider. It wasn’t jealously, really, because that wouldn’t begin to encompass the ache in Viktor’s features. He looked as if he was watching the best part of his life fly off with someone else. And speaking of – isn’t that how Yurio felt about the whole situation? Yuuri flashed back to his encounter with the young Russian earlier in the day, and how his soft words had been sliced by bitterness. 

It seemed that the Russian dressage team was more damaged, vulnerable, and deep than Yuuri had really thought. Viktor had been a figure on a poster for so long, it sometimes slipped his mind that his coach, the man who shared nightly chats with him, the one with a heart-shaped smile, crystal eyes, a sweet laugh, gentle gazes, and endless commentary was a real, actual, feeling human being. Especially now that he was starting to see the sadness behind Viktor and Yurio. And oh – Yurio. He’d been so sharp and biting since he arrived, the exact same that Yuuri had expected from seeing his interactions and watching him ride. But there was a layer of softness that Yuuri hadn’t known about until today, until he’d stopped to talk to Yuuri about how he felt about Viktor leaving. 

‘No matter who Viktor chooses to coach,’ Yuuri thinks, ‘he will end up with a student that adores him.’ But he wants to win. He really, really, really wants to win this, maybe more than he had wanted Europeans. The weeks before Europeans, Yuuri had barely slept. He’d binge-eaten, stressed, and rode horribly out of nervous habit. He was used to losing, and no matter how much he wanted to win, there was no way to batter past the mental obstacles. And yes, Yuuri is stressed. Yes, he is nervous and fretting and his muscles still quiver whenever Viktor speaks to him in the ring. But he really wants to win, to selfishly keep Viktor to himself, to ride Makkachin to victory, to make Viktor proud, to make his time here worth it, to kiss him in the winner’s circle and share his bouquet of flowers with – 

Fuck. 

He’s stupidly in love with the man who’s currently stumbling drunk up the stairs after drinking himself into a stupor over the idea that he never may be able to ride again. He’s stupidly in love with the world’s greatest dressage rider. He’s in love with a man with a heart-shaped smile and more love for horses than Yuuri has ever encountered. He’s in love with the man who commands ‘again, Yuuri, I believe in you!’ even when Yuuri doesn’t believe in himself. 

He wants to cry. Whatever challenge Viktor is planning, he has to win. He can’t lose this – this one thing that is the single greatest even that has ever happened to dime a dozen Japanese Dressage rider Katsuki Yuuri. He can’t lose the challenge, he can’t lose his change for victory, he can’t lose Makkachin, but most of all, he can’t bear to lose Viktor. 

So he will win. So he will have to win, because there is no other option than success. There is no other way to impress Viktor, to get him to fall in love with Yuuri, to prove himself to be brilliant, than to win for Viktor, to win for the judges, and then to win in front of the world.

So that is what he will do, if it means keeping Viktor here. ‘Even if Viktor only ever loves him as a friend, that will be enough,’ Yuuri realizes. ‘It’s less about him loving me back, and more about me making him proud.’

-

Practice the next morning goes far better than Yuuri thought it would. 

Viktor pops Yuuri’s freestyle music into the stereo and has him hack around to it. Yurio perches on the side of the area, scrolling through his phone and pretending not to be interested, but Yuuri catches him looking up every time Viktor praises him. 

His first few laps around the arena are stiff. He’s nervous, riding so close to Viktor, realizing that he’s fallen in love with his coach. His mind is a narrative ‘don’t fuck up don’t fuck up don’t fuck up’ to the point where he rides to the wrong letter and Viktor stops him, resting his hand on Yuuri’s knee and asking if he’s feeling okay. His face burns when Viktor asks if he’s okay. 

The music help calms him. Makkachin is energized after their hack in the woods yesterday, and dances through each movement effortlessly. There’s a definite change in his way of going. He’s happy to work with Yuuri’s aids, and instead of resisting his commands, he complies easily. Viktor is pleased, calling out praises as they ride around. He’s picking on more specific things now, too. Instead of just begging Yuuri to do lead changes or half pirouettes, Yuuri finally feels like he’s being coached through the movements. 

“Make him push off his left hind in that pirouette more,” Viktor critiques, “leg on right – there! Perfect, Yuuri!” 

Cantering away from Viktor, Yuuri blushes. Viktor’s praise feels better than Celestino’s ever did. 

“You’re slacking off! Ride your horse!” Viktor shouts down the arena. Yuuri regathers the reins frantically and puts his horse together. As kind as Viktor can be, he criticizes twice as much as he compliments. He sits back, and Makkachin shifts his weight accordingly underneath him. The music changes. Yuuri pirouettes, holding Makkachin in place while the horse canters in a tight circle. The piano intensifies. Viktor has stopped talking. He swings his legs back half an inch, enough to brush the worn leather of his boots against the horse’s sides. Makkachin erupts forward, leaping into an extended canter. Yuuri keeps his legs squeezed on, pressing the horse forward. He remembers galloping through the forest yesterday, Makkachin happily galloping along, his strides long and swining. He aims to capture that again, so he imagines stretching out of the saddle, drawing Makka’s legs along the sweeping floor, but holding his mouth at the same time, asking him to stay framed up. When the music settles, he pulls Makkachin back, and the horse comes back easily. They turn down the centerline, and Yuuri swings his leg back to ask for a lead change. Spit flies from Makka’s mouth and lands on Yuuri’s boot, speckling the polished leather. He changes easily, and Yuuri swings his other leg back. Two-tempis – lead changes with one stride in between. Makkachin bounces through Yuuri’s aids, happy to finally have hard work to do. 

‘I’ll have to practice this out in the field,’ Yuuri thinks. ‘He could be so much more energetic in his movements, and I think it’s just because he’s bored that he doesn’t score as high as he should.’ Makkachin has been a grand prix horse for as long as Yuuri has been a grand prix rider. It is one thing to be piloting the movements but for Makkachin to have been worked off his legs and never given an opportunity to relax and enjoy his job – he feels bad. 

Yuuri pulls Makkachin down to a trot when the reach the other side of the arena. He raps his legs against the horse, asking for a passage, an elevated trot movement. Makkachin has no problem showing off his signature move. He’s incredibly strong, which is what makes him able to hold such a good passage for so long. Yuuri thinks of the interviews Viktor talked about training him, working him on treadmills and in pools and hills to build the strength he needed to win the Grand Prix. He understands why those hours paid off now – Makkachin has the most powerful passage he’s ever felt. The horse springs off the ground, but still lands softly. 

They passage through a trot half pass, slowly and easily. There are hiccups – a few bobbles and rhythem of the passage, but when the reach the other side of the arena and begin back over, Viktor is standing in the center of the arena with his mouth half parted. Yurio has set his phone down completely and is glaring at Yuuri from the rail. 

He pulls up. 

“He feels good today,” Yuuri says, loosening the reins and allowing Makkachin his head. Viktor looks lost for words. He doesn’t blame him, a few days ago, he could barely get Makkachin to do a lead change. “He really enjoyed his trail ride yesterday. You know, you were right about Makka getting bored easily. I think he’s happier when he gets a change in his surroundings every now and then.” 

They walk in a large circle around Viktor. “That was one of the best passage half passes I’ve ever seen.” He says finally. “You ride to the music incredibly well – Yuuri, are you sure you haven’t been sneaking in night practices?” Yuuri laughs. “But your tempis – you let him swing all over the place. And he was far too on the forehand for the extended canter. Your transitions were messy, too.”

Yuuri gulps, but even Viktor’s critiques don’t get to him like they normally do. He’s figured it out – he knows what he needs to do to get Makka to work with him. They may really, actually, have a chance to win this.

“Yurio, come here,” Viktor commands. Yurio hops off the rail and noticeably doesn’t look Yuuri in the eyes. “Later today, Tyger arrives. We’ll give him a day to adjust, then we’ll begin training. Then, you two are going to begin working on a freestyle that showcases your weaknesses.” Yuuri startles. Weaknesses? “Yurio, you ride too aggressively. You’ll be riding to ‘On Love, Agape.’ Yuuri, you need to ride like to mean it. You need to shed your past failures and fears, and work with the horse you are on. You’re going to be riding to ‘On Love, Eros.’ Each song is only around 2 minutes, so it won’t be a full freestyle. Yurio, if you win, I’ll come back to Russia with you, and we’ll develop the piece into a full freestyle. Yuuri, if you win, we’ll take the piece I just played, the one you already wanted to work with, and we’ll make that into your freestyle for the year. I mentioned yesterday that this is a competition – I have already talked to Yuko, and she’s going to help me organize the promo to get people to come watch. I want to simulate the competition sequence as best I can.” 

Both boys nod. 

“With that, Yuuri, I want you to do the 2-tempis once again. And extend across the diagonal, make Makka hold himself.”

Yuuri gathers the reins, slick with sweat. He nods presses his heels into Makkachin’s sides, and canters away. 

He may have many weaknesses, but fuck if he’s going to let Viktor slip away this easily. 

-

The morning before the competition, Yuuri finds himself at the barn before anyone else. He grooms History, murmuring soft words to his horse. Since he’s been working so hard with Makkachin, Yuuri hasn’t had that much time to ride History and work him. Mainly, the horse has just been going out into the pasture and on occasional hacks when Yuuri can fit him in. He feels bad, but History seems happier than ever to see him, so all is forgiven. 

He’s going to ride History through a modified version of his freestyle – skipping the things the horse can’t do, of course. 

The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of practice and ViktorViktorViktor. He’s everywhere – silver hair on Yuuri’s sheets, soft touches all day long, and blue eyes in Yuuri’s dreams. He haunts him, and as much as Yuuri loves it, he still feels guilty and selfish. He sees the way that Yurio looks up to him, snapping back sarcastic comments all day long, but always listening carefully to Viktor’s advice. He’s gotten a lot better in the two weeks that he’s been here, too. He still rides chaotically, but Viktor’s been pushing him to be more precise. His piece is a calm, gentle one. Viktor is making him ride it calmly, and Yurio struggles with it. But still – he’s improving. Yesterday, Yuuri watched Viktor and Yurio’s lesson, longing for the easy comfort that came between the two as they sniped at each other from across the ring. For the first time, Yurio went through the routine looking like he wasn’t rushing through the complicated movements. But he’s still missing the essence of the piece, and that’s where Yuuri hopes to beat him. 

The only problem is, Yuuri doesn’t feel sexy this morning. His hair is messy, eyes blearly, and hand tightly wound around a thermos of coffee. He barely slept the night before, tossing and turning with the concept of losing Viktor looming on the horizon. Of not being good enough. Of not riding well enough. Of just – failing. He isn’t the epitome of Eros, standing here, covered in dirt and sweat while his anxiety rattles off of him. But in a little under 4 hours, he’s going to have to be Eros. 

Yuuri tacks up quickly, swinging onto History and letting him warmup slowly as they make lazy figure 8s around the ring. Everything is polished, fresh flowers stuffed into the tops of the letters, the mirrors shined and arena dragged. History prances across the dirt, energy coming from a combination of lack of work and excitement to be in a clean ring. 

When his horse is warmed up, and both rider and mount are puffing softly, Yuuri begins. 

Canter down centerline, X halt, salute  
Proceed working trot  
Track left, medium trot K to X, half pass X to M.

History dances across the soft sand. The test isn’t especially hard, its capturing the feeling of it that’s a challenge. It’s hard to be something you aren’t, and Yuuri feels like he’s grasping at threads as he rides, music playing through his headphones. He doesn’t feel the flair that is supposed to whip around in his pirouettes, and while his lead changes are nice, there’s none of the ‘sexy fire’ that Viktor had shouted about during training rides. It’s a good enough ride. It’s a technical test that Yuuri and Viktor poured over. On History, it’s easy, because he knows the horse and he can make accommodations. But on Makkachin, it’s a whole different story. 

The movements always feel like they’re coming up too fast, the half passes too steep, the tempis at too tight of an angle. Yuuri struggles, because between feeling sexy and riding things that are at the absolute top of his skill level, this task seems monumental. 

He finishes, saluting to an imaginary judge, and loosens the reins, letting History stretch and walk. The young horse is more than happy to do so. Yuuri pats him, then turn around sharply when he hears clapping. 

Viktor is there. Standing against the pillars of the arena, clapping slowly. 

“You’ve done a lovely job bringing him up, Yuuri,” he calls. “But you still aren’t Eros.”

Yuuri bites back a frustrated ‘I know’ and instead just gives him a thumbs up. 

“You accommodate for him too much,” Viktor says when Yuuri grows closer. “He’s at the point where you must push him, but you let him be content where he’s comfortable.” He gazes up to Yuuri. “Just like his rider.” 

Yuuri smiles tightly. He isn’t in the mood for Viktor cryptic riddles. 

Viktor sighs. Yuuri notices that he’s in riding clothes. “Hop off, and pull your saddle. I can’t stand it.”

‘Great,’ Yuuri thinks, ‘I haven’t even ridden the test in competition, and Viktor already can’t stand to watch me ride it.’ He swings off anyways, rubbing History’s forehead as he goes and then pulls the saddle off his sweaty back, tossing it onto the rail. He goes to pull History out of the ring, hot tears of shame pooling in his eyes, when Viktor grabs the reins from Yuuri’s hands and pulls History over to the rail that Viktor rests against. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says slowly, “I am going to do something that my doctors told me to absolutely, never, ever do. But I am doing it because you don’t see the potential in your horse, and you don’t see the potential in yourself, and I think that’s more important than what some old man has to say.” 

He slowly climbs on top of the rail, History standing calmly. 

“I would have liked to do this on Makka,” Viktor says, “but this will have to do.”

And then he jumps on. Bareback, helmetless, and wincing when he lands, Viktor sits on the back of a horse for the first time in a year. 

“Um,” Yuuri stammers. “Um.” 

Viktor doesn’t respond. He buries one hand in History’s mane, and holds the reins in the other. His left leg swings back, his hands hold the reins taut, and History steps forward into a swinging canter. Viktor sits back, resting against the horse’s gait, perfectly balanced and effortlessly poised. 

Yuuri’s breath is caught in his throat. Viktor looks as if he hasn’t missed a day of riding, slowly loosening his hand from History’s mane and grabbing the reins. He canters in a large circle on the end of the ring closest to Yuuri. 

“Watch me,” Viktor calls. It’s useless for him to say so, because Yuuri couldn’t possibly look away. He turns History into a pirouette, holding him at the slow gait while they pivot. History has only ever done 1 full rotation, not the 2 required for the grand prix. But after 1 rotation, Viktor keeps turning. History stumbles for a half stride, unsure of his balance as he continues. Viktor allows him to stumble, to make a small mistake, before the horse completes the second rotation perfectly. Then, he tightens his legs and asks for 1-tempis – asking him to skip. Yuuri has never gotten a line of 1 tempis on History before – he always figured that the horse was too young, too green, not ready. But Viktor asks perfectly, at the exact moment that History is balanced to change, and the horse does so easily, doing 5 perfect changes before Viktor releases and strokes his neck softly. Then, he turns him onto the same half circle that Yuuri has to do in his tests, and asks for the 2-tempis. At first, History misses the change, tossing his head when Viktor catches him softly with his boot. But then, he tries again, and succeeds. 

There is something terribly sad about how Viktor rides. Even though it’s the most beautiful display of horsemanship that Yuuri’s ever seen – and he’s not joking – Viktor keeps his head down, and his shoulders slightly rounded. There is nothing of the pride and confidence that he used to carry in the ring. He canters over to Yuuri, and pulls the horse to a halt. 

“There,” he says, his eyes shining. It takes Yuuri a moment to realize that he’s tearing up. “I told you he could do it. Now help me down, please.” 

Yuuri has to catch him as he slides off, feeling Viktor’s weight in his arms for a second before he touches down. He feels the sweat of Viktor’s back pressed against the front of his shirt, smells his expensive cologne, now mixed with the smell of horse, feels his muscles ripple under his skin. It’s tantalizing. 

“You aren’t supposed to,” Yuuri gestures to History, “you know.” 

“Yes,” Viktor says, sweeping his hand under Yuuri’s chin and leaning in. “I’m not supposed to ride. And to tell the truth, Yuuri Katsuki, you’re not supposed to win today. Everyone expects Russian superstar Yuri Plisetsky to sweep the floor with you, because they say you don’t know how to be sexy, you’re too anxious to pull it off, you and Makkachin are too unfamiliar with each other.” Yuuri’s insecurities come pouring back into the front of his brain. He bites his lower lip and drops his gaze. Viktor’s hand abruptly wrenches his chin up. “Listen, Yuuri. Listen. You didn’t think your horse could do 2 pirouettes. You didn’t think he could do 1-tempis or tempis on a half circle. But he can, because you taught him to do it without even knowing it. You prepared him to succeed, and then he did, because he trusted me. You, you have to trust me,” Viktor is growing closer with each word. Yuuri has stopped breathing. “You have to go out there today, and you have to ride with every bit of eros that you have. You have to ride like you’ve never ridden before, because I don’t want to go. I want to see you win. I want you to win.” Viktor’s breathing is labored. “I want you to be the sexy katsudon I know you can be. Because I-”

He seems as if he’s going to say something more, but the words don’t come. Viktor releases him slowly, and then hands History’s reins back. Yuuri takes them, still watching Viktor. 

He always knows how to surprise me, Yuuri thinks. He always has. 

Viktor grabs his cane, and then Yuuri’s mug off the rail. They leave the ring together, a man with a horse, and a man with a cane. Both, with a little more hope.

-

Yurio looks as polished and, well, Russian, as ever as he holds Tyger’s reins, prepared to mount. Yuuri prepares to mount beside him, palms sweaty underneath his gloves. Viktor is grinning at the both of them, holding up his phone to take a photo. “Smile!” He commands, and Yuuri chokes out a watery grin. They both have 30 minutes to warm up before they’ll take the ring individually, Yurio first, and Yuuri following. Despite Viktor’s pep talk earlier, the butterflies are returning to Yuuri’s stomach. 

Yuuri hasn’t worn his show clothes since European Championships with Vicchan. He thinks about how far he’s come in the last months – and now, here he is, about to ride his idol’s horse against Russia’s top junior athlete to compete for Russia’s OTHER golden boy’s coaching. Nervously, he reaches under his coat to brush his fingers against the rainbow flag patch sewn into the inside fabric of his coat. It’s something he’s done in all his coats since he got pinned against a stable wall and laughed at by a much older athlete for being gay. He’d switched barns and moved to America after that incident. 

The crowds inside the arena are already beginning to fill. Yuko has been ticketing the entry, and Yuuri feels good that he’s at least contributing to the barn. She smiles and waves to him from the entry door when he sees her. Makkachin is clearly excited to have an audience, the big chestnut bobbing his head excitedly as Yuuri swings into the saddle. Viktor is argueing with Yurio off to the side, something about his passage work, but Yuuri can’t bring himself to worry about that right now. He has tempi changes, piaffe, and sex appeal to conquer. In a show of false confidence, Yuuri puffs his chest out and begins riding around the ring. 

Yurio joins him, and they work in silence. There is a gentle murmur from the crowd, but other than that, it’s just the soft swish of the two horses working across the dirt. Yuuri tests some of the more basic movements to make sure that Makkachin is listening, but he needent even wonder. The horse is more than excited to have an audience, and feels just as lively as he does after they go on trail rides. Yuuri is glad he figured out what made the horse excited to work, he’d be nervous if this was the first time he was riding this energetic version of the horse. 

They’re practicing their passage to piaffe transitions when Yurio halts next to him. Tyger isn’t even sweating yet, the massive horse looking every bit as fiery and bold as his rider. 

“You have to hold more,” Yurio says shortly. “You’re not making him hold himself together.” 

Yuuri purses his lips. He doesn’t know why Yurio is coming up to him to try and help, but he tries anyways, gripping the reins a few pounds tighter through the transition from the active trot to the one in place. It works. Makkachin sits on his haunch more and has a far more defined transition. 

Yurio’s eyes are unreadable. “Better,” is all he says, and then he trots off. 

It’s the closest Yurio has ever come to complimenting Yuuri’s riding, and right before this exhibition? Unheard of. Who knew that Yuri Plisetsky could be a good sport? 

Once their 5 minute call goes out, Yuuri loosens the reins and allows Makkachin to relax. There’s nothing he can do now to fix his nerves that mess up his tempis, and his half passes aren’t going to get any better if he keeps doing them wrong. He watches Yurio ride, piloting the big bay easily. They still don’t have the subtly and feeling that Agape require, but he’s riding considerably softer. He still hasn’t found it. 

Yuuri flashes back to Viktor’s hot breath on his face earlier this morning, to watching his hips roll against History’s back to absorb the movement of his gaits. Embarrassingly, he thinks about his tight white breeches and slender fingers. His soft touches to Yuuri’s thighs or hands when he’s explaining things to him, like its jut natural for them to touch all the time. Yuuri aches for it. As he watches Yurio struggle with his Agape, he realizes that he’s begun to find his own Eros.

 

Yuuri can’t bring himself to watch Yurio’s round. He knows it will be technically flawless, and that he’ll execute the movement with precision and power. He knows that Tyger will be impressive and bold in his movements, but he also knows that Yurio will be riding to a soundtrack that he hasn’t found yet. When the soft sounds of the music come to an end, Yuuri climbs back aboard his mount and rides into the court. Viktor smiles at him softly when Yuuri makes eye contact, but Yuuri doesn’t smile back. 

Eros, he tells himself. Makkachin, we are going to be pure sex out here. The horse sneezes in response.

Yurio doesn’t seem to be happy with his round. He’s frowning, and grunts out a ‘good luck’ as Yuuri canters by. Faintly, Yuuri notices Yurio getting off just outside the ring and resting against the rail to watch. 

They circle the ring and wait for Viktor to ring that bell that signals their entry to the ring. When the soft chime comes, he halts, turn around, and raises his left hand, signifying he’d like the music to start. 

In the last two weeks of working on this freestyle, Yuuri has been trying to absorb Viktor into the routine. The way he rides Makka, with confidence and poise, the way he walks, confident all the time, and the way he speaks, self-assured and brilliant. As the first chord of Eros play, Yuuri risks a look back to Viktor, perched in the judges’ booth. He’s grinning, hands folded and leaning over, as if to topple into the ring. 

But Viktor isn’t on Makkachin right now. Viktor’s heart doesn’t race like an out of control jackhammer when the entry bell rings. Viktor has a confidence that cannot be replicated, a riding style that cannot be mimicked. And that’s what always made him special. 

Yuuri’s whole life, he has been trying to become Viktor. To ride like Viktor, to win like Viktor, to compete with Viktor. And now, they’re on a different playing field, but Yuuri can’t be Viktor anymore. 

He edges Makka into a canter and rounds the bend to enter the ring. The music pours through him. 

Yuuri can’t be Viktor anymore because Yuuri has to be himself. 

Every orifice is filled. He halts at X, salutes, and feels. 

There is anxiety, and it rushes through him. His hands shake while holding the reins. Everything is on the line, right now. 

Makka springs forward into a passage. This isn’t what I planned, Yuuri thinks. This isn’t the test that Viktor and I made. 

But it isn’t him. It was never him. He’s not the shining prince that swoops in to save the helpless and beautiful princess. He has to be someone else, something softer, more feminine, maybe. He knows this song like the back of his hand, every music cue that tells him when to change tempo and rhythm. He knows what he has to do. 

The ride comes to him as if he’s dreamed it up. And maybe he has – in every practice run, perhaps Yuuri really did see something greater in the music, but never let himself recognize it. The movements are tightly packed together, and he’s so busy thinking about preparing for the next motion that he doesn’t have time to panic about the one he’s in the middle of. There are bobs, of course. He misses a change in his 1 tempis, Makka hesitates in a pirouette, there’s hitches in the half passes. But it flows with the music, for once. Yuuri feels sexy, absorbed into the back of his horse, pressing across the folds of the sand. 

Everything on earth has music inside. He can feel his heart beat, waving like the ocean. When they canter down the centerline, he isn’t sure he’s breathed at all. The final chords are still ringing when the crowd starts screaming. Makka shies sideways, and Yuuri tosses the reins, wrapping his arms around the horse’s sweaty neck. 

They did it. It was so, so, so far from perfect, and he literally just rode the whole test off the skin of his teeth, but they did it. 

“Yuuri!” Viktor shouts, and is scrambling down from the judge’s box. “That was beautiful!” Tears bead in the corners of Yuuri’s eyes. He’s trotting across the arena, reins flapping, before he realizes what he’s doing. He wraps himself around Viktor’s body while still on top of Makka. “So Eros!” Viktor tells him, arms still firmly wrapped around his shaking shoulders. Makka stands patiently, realizing that he’s in the middle of a moment. 

“Stay,” Yuuri chokes out. “Stay, and I’ll show you what I can really do.” 

Viktor nods into his neck, squeezing his shoulders tight. The stay like that for a moment longer before Yuuri straightens his form and waves to the crowd of Hatsetsu natives, grinning. He turns Makka back to the barn, gathering his reins and allowing the horse to canter back, strides large and excited, to the gate. He deserves all the trail ride and cookies in the world after such a fantastic ride. 

Stil beaming ear to ear, Yuuri rides into the barn aisle. Yurio is tossing things into his tack trunk in the center aisle – his bridle, his saddle pad, and his helmet. 

The younger boy turns around to see Yuuri patting Makkachin before leaping off. 

“He’s always going to pick you,” Yurio grunts. “I’ll see you at the grand prix final, piggy. You better be ready.” His voice is snappish, but Yuuri hears the softness he’s gained from the weeks of training with Yurio. Still, he slams the tack trunk shut and locks it fiercely, frowning. Yurio marches down the barn aisle, slapping his dressage whip onto his leg each time he steps. And then, he evaporates into the morning sunlight. 

-

The next day, Tyger and the rest of Yurio’s things are gone by the time Yuuri and Viktor make it to the barn. Viktor seems nonplussed, but Yuuri wonders how he got everything out so quickly. 

“We have a little over a 2 months before the Rostelecom Cup,” Viktor says, walking down the aisle, coffee cup in hand. “I want us to spend most of that time working on the basics that knock off a lot of points for you. We’ll start tomorrow.” Yuuri nods. “Today, we’re going on a trail ride.” Viktor grabs Shōri’s halter and enters the bay’s stall. “I already asked if we could borrow him. Take Makka for you.”

Yuuri nods slowly. It’s a lot, that Viktor literally hopped on his horse yesterday and started flying around like he hadn’t missed a day, and a whole different thing for him to charge up and demand to go on a trail ride. He doesn’t ask if Viktor feels up to it. That feels too – personal, oddly.

Makkachin is more than happy to be ridden out of the barn, Yuuri sitting bareback on his back and Viktor following behind, yelping at the rush of cold air. Shōri follows eagerly. Since he knows the trails around here, Yuuri makes the executive decision to take Viktor on his favorite trail, the one that leads around the forest and onto the beach. Plus, it isn’t so long that it will hurt Viktor’s leg. 

Once they make it onto the trail, the soft forest light just barely breaking through the trees, Viktor rides up next to Yuuri. The trail is still pretty narrow, so every few strides, their knees brush softly. Both horses walk on loose reins, excited to be out in the fresh morning air. 

“Do you ride out here a lot?” Viktor asks. 

Yuuri shrugs. “Lately, I have been. It helps clear my head, not being boxed in by the arena. Plus, the horses love it.” 

Viktor nods. “I always wanted to ride outside more, but there aren’t any trails in the middle of St. Petersburg.” He pauses, and then carries on. “I felt bad, buying Makka at 2 and pulling him from the pasture to a box stall. It felt like I was cheating him out of something. Plus, he got bored so easily.”

They continue on, chatting about their horses and their pasts. Yuuri learns that Viktor has never fallen off of Makkachin, that in their first show together, Makka spooked and jumped out of the court, and that Viktor always shows with an image of his mother in his coat pocket. ‘She introduced me to horses,’ he’d said with a sad smile. Yuuri knows the story. Viktor’s mother passed away from cancer when he was 16 – his junior freestyle was dedicated to her that year. It made Yuuri feel a lot of things as a tender 12 year old, mainly that he needed to hug his mom a lot and tell her how much he loved her. In turn, Viktor asks about Yuuri. Yuuri tells him about running the onsen as a kid, working long hours to keep the tips that guests left him to help pay for shows and equiptment. He tells Viktor about how riding Vicchan for the first time was the moment he could see himself winning the Grand Prix Final. He tells Viktor about Vicchan’s last moments, and the cries he’s had on this trail with History. Viktor listens softly through it all, eyes wide and soft. 

Before he realizes it, they’ve made it to the beach, caught up in the laughing and sharing with each other. The clouds obscuring the sun have peeled back, revealing a gentle sun and soft waves. Makka paws at the sand, and Yuuri has to kick him forward to keep him from rolling in the sand and getting him off. Viktor laughs as Yuuri canters away, shouting at his horse. 

He canters to the firm sand near the water, where the deep footing won’t strain Makkachin’s tendons. There, he urges the horse into a gallop, allowing him to stretch his legs across the shoreline. Makka plunges his head down, and for a half second, Yuuri thinks he’s going to get bucked off, but then he stretches out and runs. Yuuri buries his hands in Makka’s mane, gripping his legs around the fast moving chestnut and hanging on for dear life as they race. It’s a beautiful feeling, the sand on one side and the sea on the other, on the back of a stretched out world class grand prix horse. When Makkachin eases up, Yuuri reins him back, turning to look at Viktor and Shōri, distant specks now. Shōri appears to be giving Viktor a hard time, half rearing and snorting in the distance. Yuuri canters back, reins loose. 

Viktor is laughing when he returns, pulling Makka up to Shōri on the shoreline. “Didn’t know he could run that fast,” Viktor remarks. “That was one hell of an extended canter.” Yuuri leans down to rub Makka’s neck. The horse prances in place, eager to gallop again. “I’ll race you?”

Yuuri looks up in surprise, the words ‘are you ready for that?’ halfway formed on his lips. Before has the chance to ask or react, there is a spray of sand and a voice shouting over his shoulder; “race you to the jetty! Ready, go!”

Makkachin is turned the wrong way, and he spins quickly, but Yuuri is caught off guard and loses his rein. Makka lurches forward anyways, eager to chase his barnmate, before Yuuri catches him with his other rein and has to fumble for the missing one. By the time he’s regathered his reins and has his hands firmly buried in Makka’s neck, Viktor is already halfway down the beach, Shōri moving remarkably fast for being incredibly old. 

But Makkachin is younger, and far more powerful. He breaks into a wide open gallop, moving faster than he ever has before. Yuuri’s eyes water with the feeling of the earth rushing underneath him and the wind whipping his eyes. They’re gaining on Viktor and Shōri quickly, but the jetty is fast approaching. Yuuri untangles his hands from Makkachin’s mane and lowers them on his neck, urging the horse on. Makkachin shifts gears and grows closer to the water, continuing to gain speed. They’re flying now, fully blitzing through the morning ocean spray. The end of the beach is fast approaching, but so is Shōri.

They end up yanking up, Yuuri a half horse length behind Shōri, before crashing into the rock barrier. Makkachin passages a circle, nostrils widened with effort and excitement. 

“He looks like a wild stallion!” Viktor laughs. “It’s like the black stallion, but like. Grand prix champion edition.” Yuuri laughs. “But as beautiful as you two are,” Yuuri swallows at you two, “I did still win.” 

“You cheated!” Yuuri shrieks, “you caught me off guard!” 

“Hmm,” Viktor rides up to Makkachin, who is now settled down. “But I did still win.” He halts his horse directly next to Yuuri, so that they’re sitting almost face to face. “What will my prize be?”

He leans in, and Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat. Viktor’s eyes are full and glassy and beautiful, like twin moons. His lips are the color of cherry blossoms in the spring, soft and rosy pink. He smells like expensive cologne and horses and coffee as he stops a few inches from Yuuri’s face. 

“Yuuri?” Viktor says slowly, like a question. 

Yuuri’s breath is still stuck in his throat, but he stammers out a, “yes?”

“Can I kiss you?” Viktor murmurs, and Yuuri leans forward, one hand coming off his reins to wrap around the back of Viktor’s head, and he answers the question without saying a word.

It’s arguably the best 10 seconds of Yuuri’s entire life.

-

Viktor wraps his arms around Yuuri in the middle of the temporary barn aisles. Yuuri quakes with cold and nervousness, breathing heavy puffs into Viktor’s down jacket. Behind them, Makkachin stands saddled and gleaming, ready for his debut in the international ring with Yuuri on his back. The Rostelecom Cup is Yuuri’s first chance to redeem himself since the disastrous European Championships of last year. 

The last two months have been a whirlwind of ViktorViktorViktor and heavy training on as many horses as Viktor can convince the patrons of the barn to let Yuuri ride. The answer is a lot, mainly because Viktor is beautiful and charming. Tragically, this means that Yuuri has been riding up to 8 horses in a single day, and he has yet to get home and promptly pass out from exhaustion.

Sometimes, Viktor rides with him, taking Shōri on hacks around the arena or out for trail rides. Yuuri can tell that his knee bothers him, since his limp is always considerably worse after he rides, but the easy smile on Viktor’s face when he’s on the back of a horse is too sweet to take from him. 

The freestyle they put together is impossibly difficult, yet Yuuri somehow manages to ride through it. It’s not perfect, that’s for sure, but it does feel right. He’s been gaining the confidence to ride Makkachin to the best of ability in practice – but that’s at home, where the ring is quiet except for Viktor’s constant critiques, where the rafters swoop instead of scream, and where Yuuri is calmer than wnywhere else, not more stressed. 

“Let’s go warm up, yes?” Viktor suggests, breaking the hug and peppering a small kiss to Yuuri’s nose. He blushes. 

There’s also that. The affection that Viktor constantly showers him in, from kisses to hugs to hand-holding. Some nights, he falls asleep in Yuuri’s bed and they wake up semi-tangled. It’s calm, and beautiful, and Yuuri loves it. But there’s also the fact that they haven’t talked about this – whatever it is – at all. 

He pulls away from Viktor’s warmth and leads Makkachin from his stall. They walk down the aisle, the big chestnut’s shoes clacking against the concrete. They weave through tunnels filled with international riders that Yuuri has looked up to for years. It’s hard to believe that he’s getting a second chance to compete against them. When they reach the warmup, Viktor gives him a leg up into the saddle and hands him the headset that will allow them to communicate while Yuuri warms up. 

He takes Makkachin around the practice ring slowly, letting the horse warm up. Makka senses the importance of the event, and moves with pricked ears and a peppy step. A rider suddenly loses control of their horse, a few feet away from Makkachin and Yuuri, and the frightened beast stumbles into Makkachin, causing him to bolt forward. Yuuri recovers him quickly, but they’re both rattled from the event. Viktor is saying something about calming down, and breathing, but for the rest of the warmup, Makkachin is braced and tight, and Yuuri can’t calm his horse or himself down. 

The rest of their warmup goes horribly. He can’t even get his 2 tempis, Makka is so hot and nervous. They’re clearly tense, and it shows in the passage. Their piaffe to passage transitions are rough and choppy. Viktor has stopped commenting on the movements, they’re that bad. Yuuri has bitten his lower lip to a pulp by the time he pulls up at the rail in front of Viktor. Viktor watches him carefully. “Let’s take a walk,” he says finally. “You still have a few in front of you, and this clearly isn’t helping.”

The concrete walls of the barn echo as they walk down a tunnel.

‘I’m a failure, and I’m going to let Viktor down, oh god oh god oh godohgod’ rattles in Yuuri’s head as Viktor takes Makkachin’s reins and leads him down the passage to the barn aisles. He turns off to the side, and they end up standing in the parking garage, Yuuri still mounted. 

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Viktor asks. 

“No shit,” Yuuri hisses. “I’m riding horribly.” His stomach is in knots. “Everything I do in that ring is going to transmit to you. People are going to be watching me and seeing you. And if I don’t ride as well as I can, it’s going to reflect on you, and on Makkachin and –

“Yuuri,” Viktor says sharply. “How about this – if you do poorly, I’ll resign as your coach. That way, the – fuck, are you crying?” 

Sick, twisted, anger strikes hot in Yuuri’s stomach. He’s spent the last several months fighting to prove himself to Viktor, battling past his anxiety and his stress and everything else that’s held him back his entire life. He doesn’t want Viktor to go. He want to make Viktor proud, to suck the sad half smile out of his skin, to kiss him senseless again. He wants to ride next to him, to compete beside him, receive his medals by his side.

Yuuri lets out a gross sob. Makka shifts uneasily. He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to let Viktor down. 

“I don’t want to lose, Viktor. I don’t want to let you down. Fuck, that’s the last thing I want. I don’t want you to resign as my coach. I want you to stay, and I want to win gold at the European Championships with you.”

For once, Viktor looks lost for words, stunned into silence. “I just want you to believe in me more than I believe in myself,” he cries. 

After a brief moment, Viktor creeps forward, and taps Yuuri’s boot. “Hop down,” he commands, and Yuuri swings off. Viktor wraps him in his arms, pulling him in for a hug. Yuuri sobs, his voice cracking as he apologizes. The loudspeaker above them calls Yuuri as on deck, and Yuuri breaks the hug, wiping his eyes and smiling weakly. 

The hug says it all. Viktor holds him by his shoulders, and leans in carefully. Just before he reaches Yuuri’s lips, Yuuri presses his finger in between them to stop the kiss. 

“Let me win you gold first,” he whispers. “Give me a leg up.”

Viktor boosts him back onto his horse. He looks forlorn. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but Yuuri just shakes his head. Dealing with his anxiety isn’t easy, and he knows it. It’s as Viktor reads his mind. “I believe in you,” he tells him, and Yuuri smiles, gathering his reins and walking up the aisle to the holding pen. The stewards are fussy about him being, like, 30 seconds late, but Viktor squeezes his leg, and then he’s back in the ring. 

The flags wave overhead, the lights bright, the crowd murmering and excited from the last ride – Christophe Giacometti, the Swiss man that’s been on the circuit as long as Viktor. Yuuri remembers they were good friends, and rumored as more than that for a long time before Christophe announced his engagement to his boyfriend last year. 

The ring is heavily decorated, elaborate and beautiful. Yuuri hasn’t been in a ring like this in a long time, and the familiar nerves twist up his torso like vines. Makkachin, however, is used to the international ring, and seems more than pleased to be returning to this situation. 

They canter along the long side of the ring, Yuuri greeting the judges as he canters by.

“Next in the ring,” the announcer calls, “Katsuki Yuuri, representing Japan. Today, Katsuki rides ‘Makkachin,’ a 15 year old Hanoverian gelding owned by Viktor Nikiforov.” 

The audience murmurs at the mention of Viktor’s name. 

‘Ride for Viktor,’ Yuuri tells himself as the starting bell rings. Slowly, he rounds the corner and enters the arena. 

Since this is only the first round of the competition, he isn’t doing the freestyle, just the normal grand prix test. He halts on the centerline, salutes, and then continues on. 

The test passes in a blur, but not the bad kind like Europeans had been. He faintly remembers doing his trot half pass and thinking ‘wow! That was good!’ before he’s so caught up in the next movement that he doesn’t think about it anymore. He misses two of his tempis, but there is none of the tension and drama that the warmup ring had held. 

On the rail, Viktor holds his breath, watching. He remembers riding this same test himself last year, steering Makka through these exact movements. Yuuri rides with a softness that Viktor could never hope to have. He rides like Makkachin is an extension of him, rather than something he has to control. It’s artful, and beautiful, and yes, there are errors, and Viktor watches the way that Yuuri’s seat tenses imperceptibly after each miss, but overall, it’s still very good. Far better than his performance last year. 

They leave the arena, Yuuri heaving and rubbing Makkachin’s neck eagerly. “Such a good boy,” he’s saying as he leaves the ring. The stewards stop him to do their routine bit and spur checks, and in the meantime, Viktor swarms. 

“Wow, Yuuri!” He calls, and Yuuri turns, grinning. “You really messed up on your tempis, huh?” 

Yuuri just rolls his eyes. “Viktor?” He asks. 

“Hmm?”

“Shut up.”

 

They score a 76.872%. It’s not good enough to put him on the podium – yet, but it is good enough to settle him in 5th with 2 more rounds to go. Collecting his ribbon and his test, Yuuri and Viktor walk back to the barn, Yuuri reading over the judge’s critiques while Viktor chimes in his opinions for each movement. Back at the stall, Yuuri rubs Makkachin’s head fiercely, and checks his phone. If he keeps up scoring like this, he’ll get the minimum 65% he needs to qualify for European Championships for sure.

“Viktor, I love this, but I’m going to meet up with Phichit for dinner, if that’s okay?” Viktor looks startled – either at being cut off mid critique of Yuuri’s hands halfway through his 2nd pirouette, or at being excluded from dinner plans. 

He recovers quickly, nodding, and releasing Yuuri for the night. They sit, Yuuri texting Phichit and telling him that they’re cleared to eat dinner together. He’s glad he’ll get a chance to meet up with his old frien before competition continues. Phichit put in an amazing round today, and is sitting jus behind Chris in 2nd by half a percent. They trained together with Celestino, and Phichit was the only person who really got him. They were the two boys from Asia, fighting to make their mark in the Grand Prix ring. Trailblazers, from countries that watched equestrian sports with interest, but also shyness. 

Viktor checks his phone, shouts something about Chris, and darts off. Yuuri watches him go, a soft smile edging onto his face as he bounds down the aisle. 

“Who’s that smile for?” Phichit prods, appearing behind Yuuri. 

“Phichit!” Yuuri shouts, spinning and half-tackling his best friend with a massive hug. He and Pichit met in Detriot together, and they both trained with Celestino. Pichit was, and arguably still is, Yuuri’s favorite person on earth. Viktor comes in a close second. 

Phichit laughs, and they hug. He lets Yuuri down eventually, and he drops to the floor. “Why don’t you invite Viktor to dinner with us?” He suggests, “I was thinking of inviting Leo de la Iglesia and Guong Hong Ji too.” 

Yuuri scrambles for an answer that isn’t an enthusiastic yes. He settles for a barely-contained yes, opting to shout at Viktor down the barn aisle. 

“HEY VIKTOR!” Viktor, from down the hallway, spins around. “COME TO DINNER WITH US?”

He comes charging back, shouting about inviting Chris. 

-

Seated comfortably close on overstuffed blue cushions, the four men settle in to their hot pot and dinner conversation. Minami, who is travelling with Yuuri and Viktor as their groom and Makkachin’s handler, is on his way to dinner, texting Yuuri in caps lock about getting to dine with him. He’s very stressed about the dress code. Yuuri wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up in a full 3 piece suit out of sheer terror. 

Viktor is holding up some sort of shrimp excitedly, his eyes wide and happy. Yuuri is nestled into his side, his kind-of boyfriend. Chris is watching with curious eyes, suspicious. Phichit is rattling on about his rounds today, and how he’s going to post it in a few parts later. Yuuri is happy for him, being one of the first professional riders from Thiland to do this well on the dressage scene. If he makes it to Europeans, he’ll be the first rider to ever have done so from Thailand. And based on the way he’s scoring, it shouldn’t be a problem. His horse, Hamster, is a lovely light bay with flashy movements and a light body. He’s athletic and quick, just like Phichit. 

“Smile!” Phichit shouts, holding up his phone. Yuuri wonders if it was surgically possibly to turn your arms into selfie sticks if Phichit would get the surgery. Probably, he decides. 

He takes a photo, talking rapidly about posting it to Instagram, but Yuuri is distracted by Viktor, who is dissecting a large shrimp. 

“You’re really cute,” Yuuri says softly. Viktor stops trying to stab the still-quaking seafood and looks up, a sweet smile edging onto his face. 

“Really?” Viktor says, even though he must know this. Yuuri’s been smiling at the professional shots of him for years. 

Yuuri nods. “Very,” he confirms. Viktor breaks into a soft smile, and presses himself closer to Yuuri. 

Are they boyfriends? Yuuri still isn’t sure, but he leans back into Viktor and continues eating his poached egg. Phichit smirks and raises his phone to snap a photo. 

Are they dating? Yuuri doesn’t know, but he’s happy here, so he settles for that.

-

Yuuri is a nervous wreck going into his musical freestyle. Minami is putting the finishing grooming touches on Makkachin before they get on to warm up, smiling and humming as he does so. Viktor is resting against the stall door, talking freestyle about everything that Yuuri did wrong in his Grand Prix Special the day before. Yuuri is listening, nodding in the right parts, but he’s really thinking about his freestyle more than anything. 

The freestyles are what determine the individual rankings. Since there isn’t really a ‘team Japan’ dressage team for the European circuit, Yuuri automatically missed the team podium presented the day before. Russia topped the podium, Yurio leading the team with impressive scores and bold movements, Georgi putting in a solid test, Mila riding with her usual grace, and Alexi stumbling his way through. Luckily, his score was dropped. 

Today is what matters to most of the world. The crowd is massive today, eager to watch the horses and riders dance to perfectly timed music. Today is what will make the papers sing if Yuuri wins, and roar if he loses. Winning will mean that Viktor leaving will really mean something to someone more than him. And Yuuri is determined to make Viktor look good. 

Minami emerges from the stall, a soft grin on his face. “He’s ready, Yuuri!” He says, leading Makkachin from his stall. Yuuri swallows and nods, snapping the clasp of his helmet and pulling Viktor into a hug. He stops talking. 

“I’m going to make you proud to be my coach today,” Yuuri whispers into Viktor’s ear. He can feel the older man’s soft chuckle vibrate through him. Viktor pulls back, and smiles. 

“You always make me proud,” he tells Yuuri softly. “Always, okay? Now go make yourself proud.” Yuuri is about to open his mouth, remark on how much better Viktor is getting at pep talks, when he continues. “And for fuck’s sake, sit back and ride, Yuuri.” Ah. There it is. Viktor’s signature vaguely frustrated coaching advice. 

-

In the victory gallop, Yuuri rubs the white 4th place ribbons with his hand, and raises the other over his head. Poor Makkachin seems confused as to why he’s not leading the gallop, but that’s up to Phichit, who is out of the saddle on Hamster, letting his back gallop while Phichit whoops. He’s incredibly happy for his best friend, no matter how much he’d love to be leading the charge right now. They put in a solid freestyle, and made no major mistake. If anything was wrong, he was timid in places, and had some small bobbles. At the top level of competition, little tiny mistakes are the gap between 1st and 4th, so Yuuri isn’t too gutted. He scored well above the required 65%, which means he’s gotten his 1st score to qualify for Europeans.

Here's the real reason that Yuuri can’t stop smiling. 

After he left the dressage court, smiling and waving, heart light with finally putting in a freestyle that he could be proud of, Viktor had jumped the guard rails and was running toward him. At first, Yuuri had thought something was wrong, and jumped off, worried. 

Nothing was wrong, it turned out. In the middle of a massive sports stadium, Viktor charged into Yuuri’s arms and kissed him in front of the entire world. 

Hours later, Yuuri’s lips still buzz from the feeling of Viktor’s against his own. Their 4th place ribbon isn’t the greatest, but Yuuri is damn proud of it. He rode without letting his anxiety get the best of him, and that alone is a feat that he’s proud of. 

The duo leaves the ring, and Yuuri hangs back to watch Phichit finish his victory lap. 

From 2nd place, Yuuri hisses ‘good job, pig,’ under his breath as if he’s afraid of someone else hearing. Viktor, however, does, and smiles softly. Honestly, Yurio’s comment is more surprising than his high place.

 

-

It’s 5 o clock on a Monday morning, and Yuuri is laying on the floor, awake. He doesn’t want to sleep until Viktor is tucked back into his side, but he’s still gone, out to dinner with Chris. Which probably turned into dinner and too many drinks with Chris. 

He rolls over, sighing and staring at the ceiling. The bed was too warm, too fluffy for Yuuri to get comfortable on. So now he lays on the red carpet of an upscale hotel in China, watching the lights from traffic outside bounce off the ceiling. He sighs, and debates texting Viktor again. He opens his phone and scrolls through the messages instead. 

Viktor❤  
10:47pm: should I wait up?  
11:24pm: Vik?  
11:50pm: I guess not, haha  
12:49am: I hope your night is good! Stay safe. Xx.  
1:13am: I’m going to bed, I think.  
1:45am: Just kidding. Can’t sleep without you.  
3:04am: Come home safe, please.

Yuuri continues staring up at the ceiling. He’s incredibly proud of the white ribbon hanging from the back of the chair in front of him, a title that he did something worth recognizing. For the umpteenth time, Yuuri wonders how he got here. How he’s living in a world where he gets to ride one of the world’s greatest horses, coached by the world’s greatest rider. How he competes on an international level with anxiety so bad it rattles his bones and chokes up his lungs. 

Sometimes, Yuuri wonders how he’s even alive. Like today – riding into the ring with a freestyle that lays him raw and bare, and still being able to throw his heart out on the line to be judged with numbers and jotted comments. How did he unleash that in himself without brutalizing it? 

Viktor❤  
5:05am: please. Come home. 

Yuuri’s chest aches. He feels empty, like a shell with blackened edges. He wonders if Viktor is sleeping in someone else’s bed, his soft grey hair splayed over someone else’s pillows, long arms wrapped around another vague shape. After all, it isn’t like they’re dating. Viktor can do whatever he wants, fuck whoever he wants, get drinks with his friends and wander home with someone beautiful and willowy and sexy. Someone who doesn’t have a muffin top and thick thighs, someone who doesn’t tremble before he rides into the ring, someone who is bold and flirtatious and doesn’t turn bright red every time Viktor brushes them. 

His breath comes fast. His chest tightens, like a vice is gripping him. His vision grows blurry, the lights on the ceiling a swirling mess, like a Cezanne painting of black and yellow. They form the face of a demon, chanting and laughing from the ceiling. Yuuri remembers the years before he got his anxiety under control, when he used to have nightmares every night, and could never tell if they were real or not. This is what that feels like, spiraling out of control, with his brain throwing rationality to the wind. 

Viktor❤  
5:06am: hey. I’m freaking out. Please let me know that you’re alive, at least.  
5:06am: you don’t have to talk to me or kiss me ever again I just want to know you’re oky..,,,/

Maybe, Yuuri thinks through the haze, he just fell asleep at Chris’ room. He’s probably fine, just drunk and tired. I don’t need to worry like this. 

But there’s no escape button, no control-alt-delete on Yuuri’s brain to stop the anxiety attack. 

This must be what it feels like to drown, Yuuri thinks faintly, before the sobs take him over completely and he loses himself. 

 

 

The sun breaks through the windows a few hours later. Still on the floor, and wrecked with his anxiety attack and the resulting awful sleep, Yuuri wakes up to the feeling of someone’s hands in his hair, gently combing through the long black strands. 

Yuuri opens his eyes. Viktor sits above him, Yuuri’s head half in his lap. He has a worried look on his face, and reaches back to pick up a glass of water. 

“I’m sorry,” Vikor says as he hands Yuuri the glass and helps him to sit up. “I crashed early at Chris’.”

Yuuri nods and gulps down some water. “I’m sorry for freaking out on you.” 

“I should have been there for you.” Viktor persists. 

The last person to help Yuuri through an anxiety attack was Phichit, back before he moved back to Japan. They’d been roommates, so Yuuri’s anxiety had been an unavoidable topic. Here, he’d been trying to hide this part of himself from Viktor.

“I’m used to it.” Yuuri says, picking at the carpet. 

Viktor inhales shakily. He rises suddenly, and Yuuri feels his chest hitch. He walks to the bathroom, and rummages around before returning. 

“Look,” Viktor says. Yuuri raises his eyes. In Viktor’s hands are three bottles of pills, and for a moment, Yuuri thinks they’re his – except.

They’re from the local pharmacy in Hatsetsu, but the name on them isn’t Yuuri’s. 

They’re Viktor’s. 

He looks up. 

Viktor sits beside him, and sets the bottle down to reach out and take Yuuri’s hands in his own. 

“When I was 14, I was diagnosed with severe depression. I tried to kill myself four times between the age of 12 and 16. I was hospitalized twice. Yakov’s had me on suicide watch too many times to count.” He takes a shaky breath in. “I refused treatment for a long time. I let myself struggle and wallow, because it was easier than confronting the shadows that hung off my shoulders. Riding was the only place where I didn’t feel useless. Then- I had my accident.” Yuuri squeezes Viktor’s hands sharply. “And everything went downhill. I couldn’t do the one thing that made me feel alive. They told me I probably never would again. I tried to kill myself. I wouldn’t eat, drank vodka from the bottle for breakfast, refused to leave my house.”

“Oh, babe,” Yuuri says softly. 

“Anyways, about two months before I showed up in Hatsetsu, Makkachin flipped his rider off. He was pretty badly hurt, and I felt bad. I started going to the barn to turn Makka out and lunge him from time to time. But it was almost impossible seeing the horse who had carried me to victory so many times being reduced to a pasture buddy. So I started getting him back in shape, and I started taking care of myself too. I went to physical therapy again, started seeing a psychologist, met with my psychiatrist and found medication that made it easier to get up in the morning.”

Viktor takes a heavy breath. “What I’m trying to say. Is that you aren’t weak for having anxiety. When I saw you ride at Europeans last year, I knew that your anxiety got the best of you. And my depression got the best of me for the next year. But you rode through it. You do every day. You’ve never run away from what scared you – you tackle it head on. And that shows. And it’s amazing and brave, and fuck. I’m so proud, Yuuri.”

They’re both crying now. 

“I saw the video of you and History doing my freestyle, and it was the first time I had really felt alive in months. I made the split decision to head to Japan because it was the first real idea I’d had in so long. And no one really knows what I went through, but I saw what I was going through in you, and how you had fallen so hard at Europeans but you were still out here, relearning to love riding even after losing your horse and your chance at victory. I came because you inspired me, you inspire me, every damn day. 

“So please don’t apologize for having anxiety, or for feeling like you’re weak. Because you aren’t. You’re incredibly strong, and powerful, and I’m so proud, Yuuri. I’m so proud of you.”

Yuuri has nothing to say. He just reaches his arms out, and Viktor falls into them. They climb onto the bed, curling up together, still sniffling. 

Gently, Viktor kisses each of Yuuri’s tear-stained cheeks, and Yuuri smiles. He returns the favor. 

With the sun peaking over the skyline, the two boys finally sleep, exhausted, tangled, and utterly in love.

-

With the Rostelecom Cup just a month away, Viktor drills Yuuri endlessly. 

“You didn’t ride that forward enough,” he shouts from across the ring. “Again!” 

Viktor sits bareback on Shōri, watching Yuuri struggle with his extended canter to pirouettes. Since getting home from the Cup of China, things have been. Different. 

For one, they sleep together now. Yuuri still doesn’t really know if they’re actually dating, but he knows that he can’t sleep without Viktor tucked into his side. He knows that Viktor is picking up bits of Japanese, and still wakes up before him to talk to his family in the mornings. Yuuri knows that Viktor pulls him in for tiny kisses every now and then. 

Yuuri also knows that he’s riding in a hoodie with his sleeves rolled up because last night, Viktor had him pinned against the wall and was biting hickies into the soft flesh of his neck. 

So there’s also that.

They complete the movement, and Viktor makes no comment, which translates to “wow, Yuuri, finally.” 

He pulls up next to Viktor, loosening the reins and allowing Makkachin to walk in lazy circles around Shōri. “Good?” Yuuri asks. Viktor just nods. 

It feels odd, being Viktor’s equal, but Yuuri is slowly slipping into the role. He no longer feels just like Viktor’s student, especially after finding out that he can ride his half passes better than Viktor fucking Nikiforov. The last few weeks have been a journey for Yuuri’s anxiety and Viktor’s depression. Yuuri notices the way Viktor tires easier some days, how sometimes, they just go on lazy trail rides instead of actually working, watching the sunlight flickers off the leaves overhead. 

There is nothing glamourous about their intertwined illnesses. There is no poetic magic that Yuuri feels about the fact that both he and Viktor struggle to control their own minds. He sympathizes, understands, knows what it feels like for your bones and mind and body to ache with every step, but there is no beauty in it. It’s sadness, unfortunate, hard, that Viktor has to suffering in a similar way to him. And although they’ve been together for months now, he still doesn’t have the words to explain how he feels when he’s breaking down. He need not, though. Viktor just wraps his arms around him and they rock, slowly, breaths hot and puffing against each other. And on the nights that Viktor can’t breathe, that Yuuri watches his fists trembles as he curls in on himself, Yuuri lays next to him and runs his hands through his hair, whispering reassurances. He knows he’s said ‘I love you,’ in those tepid moments, but he doesn’t know if Viktor knows what he really means. 

That now that Viktor is a real human, Yuuri’s love splits him in two. He’s staggered between the fear that loving his coach will destroy Viktor’s reputation, that Yuuri’s anxiety will destroy Viktor, and the unbearable desire to be next to him at all times. He wants to hold Viktor, for real. He wants to love him in ways that are more than physical, like the nights when they’re breaking and always there for each other. He knows that there is love, but the hanging question is this – does Viktor love Yuuri like Yuuri loves Viktor? For real kind of love.

As they untack together, Viktor taking his time with his bad knee, Yuuri sighs at the comfort, easy as a warm sweater. Viktor grabs his ass in the tack room as Yuuri stretches up to hang Makka’s bridle, Yuuri spins around and lifts him onto a tack trunk, pressing a firm kiss to his surprised lips. 

“So Eros,” Viktor chuckles, “I’m glad we finally found it, eh Yuuri?” 

Yuuri is addicted to the way that Viktor says his name, accent swallowing the long vowels of Yuuri’s name and returning them with a particular hum. 

“Only with you,” Yuuri replies, dipping back in for a kiss. 

“I’m so lucky my boyfriend is so sexy,” Viktor says with a smirk.

Yuuri’s heart half stops. “Boyfriends?” He stammers. Viktor’s face falls cold. 

“Are we – I’m sorry for assuming.” He says rapidly, pulling himself out of Yuuri’s grasp. “Shit, I jus-”

“Boyfriendsisgood,” Yuuri cries, reaching out to grab Viktor’s hands. “Boyfriends is good. I like that idea.”

12 year old Yuuri is screaming at full tilt internally. 

“Boyfriends,” Viktor says, and then again, slowly, like he’s tasting a fine wine and considering it. “Yes.”

 

-

That night, Yuuri goes to Minako’s ballet studio while Viktor drinks saki with Mari and watches football. He slips out the back door of the onsen, wearing his exercise clothes, and jogs into the darkness. He hasn’t been in ages, and his body is beginning to ache from the constant work of riding without release. 

The lights of her studio are still on, and after Yuuri climbs the stairs, he finds Minako dancing in the center of the room, on pointe, her eyes closed and hands sweeping. He watches through the window for a brief moment, before feeling like he’s violating her by watching, and opens the door slowly. Minako doesn’t stop, just calls “a minute, Yuuri,” and continues sweeping along to the cresting music. When the song ends, she opens her eyes. Yuuri claps slowly, and she grins. 

“What can I do for you?” She asks. 

Yuuri sheds his outer jacket, observes himself in the mirror, noticeably more round that he was a few months ago. He finds that he doesn’t really mind – he’s riding better than he ever has before, he has a kickass boyfriend, and he can still drop into the splits on command. “I came to dance,” he says. 

“Mmm,” Minako says, scrolling through a playlist on her phone, “and dance you shall. In another life, Yuuri, this is your calling.” 

He laughs. “I’m too chubby for that, Minako,” he retorts, stretching against the barre. 

“Doesn’t make you any less athletic, Mr. ‘I’m-Going-To-Win-The-Grand-Prix-Final,’” she teases and presses play on a song, soothing and slow. Yuuri unfolds himself and his anxious layers, stepping in rhythm to the music. He spins, leaps, stretches, bows, and Minako watches from the sidelines. She lets him go, queuing an endless string of music, calling out positions for him to perform. And he does – for a minute, or maybe an hour, but until his legs shake and his skin is damp with sweat. When he finally sags against the wall, panting and flushed, Minako turns the music off and sits on the floor next to him, her long hair sweeping gracefully around her shoulders. 

They stretch together, chatting about everything and nothing. Minako tells him about the slow decline in business they’ve been having lately, and how she’s thinking about getting into professional choreography. Yuuri talks about Viktor, about Makkachin, about the way the world sings when he’s on the back of a horse. And they listen to each other, curled up on a worn wooden floor where Yuuri first learned to really listen to music, first really learned to dance long before he figured it out on the back of a horse. 

When he drags himself home, the streetlights flicker in the night sky. Yuuri hums his freestyle music as he walks, watching his movements play out in his memory. When he crawls into bed, Viktor is already asleep. Yuuri is careful not to wake him up, climbing between the sheets slowly, but his attempts are futile. 

“Yuuri?” Viktor drawls sleepily. Yuuri hums in response and just kisses Viktor’s forehead. “Missed ‘chu,” he says, and then curls into Yuuri’s chest. Yuuri drapes his arm around him and drifts off, sore and tired and utterly content.

-

Getting off the plane from Tokyo, the worst happens. Makkachin stumbles down the ramp off the plane, distracted by something in the distance, and trips. Hard. 

He comes up limping, heat in his left front leg, with one week until the Rostelecom Cup. Yuuri sits with his back against the stall door and sobs for an hour. It’s Yurio who finds him.

Yuuri frantically tries to wipe the tears off his face when he hears a body resting against the stall door behind him.

“Bummer,” the voice says. “How bad is it?”

Yuuri looks up, tear tracks running down his cheeks. Yurio looks genuinely concerned. 

“Not sure. The vet hasn’t come yet, but there’s swelling and a little bit of heat.”

A tendon injury could take a horse out for a lifetime, especially an older horse like Makkachin. If it’s really a tendon strain, or god forbid – tear, this is going to be the end of Yuuri’s season and probably the end of Makka’s career. 

“You two are pathetic. Viktor is crying in the bathroom right now. Go cry together.” Yurio huffs. “And I hope the vet says its nothing – I’m looking forward to kicking your ass.”

Yuuri lets out a timid laugh. Yurio is half smiling, then turns away sharply and calls ‘later!’ over his shoulder as he walks down the aisle. Yuuri takes a deep breath and pulls an icepack out from the cooler outside the stall and applies it to Makka’s leg. He’s surprised to see Viktor walking down the aisle, hands tucked into his hoodie. 

“Hey,” Viktor greets him. Yuuri nods, and tightens the straps of the pack.

He feels a vague guilt, even though there was nothing he could have done to prevent Makka’s stumble. It’s he, after all, that’s riding Viktor’s prize horse, and it’s under his watch that he was injured.

“It’s not your fault,” Viktor says, reading Yuuri’s mind. “It’s no one’s fault.” He slips inside the stall and takes a seat next to Yuuri. Slowly, he reaches out to drape his arm around Yuuri. Yuuri nestles into him, too tired and numb to cry anymore. Viktor, too, seems just as poised and stoic as he is in front of the press, minus his arm around Yuuri. This is his way of deflecting, Yuuri knows. 

Makkachin eats his hay peacefully. Yuuri curses the whole universe for fucking everything up just when things were starting to go good. And there’s nothing they can do except wait for the vet to check him tomorrow, to ice him and hope, pray, that it isn’t anything serious. 

“The vet’s coming tomorrow at 8 am,” Viktor says finally, breaking the stillness of the air. “I can be here if you don’t-

“I’ll be here.” Yuuri interrupts. “I’m not missing this.” He gestures to Makkachin. “I already lost my horse for this year once.” Thinks of Vicchan, and his soft muzzle, his easy stride, how willing he was, unlike stubborn Makka, “I’m not losing this one too.”

Viktor nods, and closes his eyes. The façade falls, but he doesn’t cry, just sinks into Yuuri shoulder and lets out a rattling breath. I know, thinks Yuuri, and wraps his arms around Viktor, encompassing the man in his arms. “He’s going to be okay,” Yuuri says, not really believing it himself. 

They sit, under the buzzing lights, rotating on and off Makka’s ice boots until there’s no heat to be found and the swelling is all but gone. Makkachin isn’t limping at the walk anymore as he cruises around his stall, snuffling at Yuuri and Viktor on the search for food and treats. He nips at Viktor’s jacket pocket, where he knows the man always keeps snacks. Viktor smiles hazily and removes a peppermint. Yuuri watches the exchange slowly. 

Makkachin stumbles closer to Viktor, until he’s practically on top of him in his haste to get to the mint Viktor is unwrapping. If Yuuri was Viktor, he’d be nervous, shooing the horse out of his personal space out of fear of being accidentally trampled. But Viktor is nonplussed, allowing Makkachin to get in his personal space. They’ve been together for 13 years. Yuuri can’t imagine what it feels like to lose the ability to ride, and then to have your horse injured in a freak accident almost exactly a year later, and risk losing the ability to compete forever. As Makkachin eats the peppermint, Viktor scratches behind his ears, and the horse leans into it. It’s a silent bond, the communication between a horse and a rider who have been though everything together. 

Yuuri wants to win the grand prix final. Of course he does. But watching Viktor and Makkachin, he realizes that he wants something more than that. He wants Viktor to ride Makka again, show Makka again. It’s not really a question of if he can anymore – he’s riding every day at home, going to physical therapy regularly, and having Minako teach him stretches. He’s getting better – his limp is far less pronounced and he doesn’t wince as much the morning after he rides. It’s a question of the mental battle, the idea of climbing back into the world of competitive dressage after being told you were sidelined for life. It’s giving your horse off to someone else and then stealing him back. 

He makes a decision, watching Viktor climb to his feet and kiss Makkachin’s velvety muzzle. 

He’s going to win the Grand Prix Final, and then he’s going to retire. And next year, it will be Viktor on Makkachin taking home gold.

-

That night, in the hotel, Yuuri tells him this. He has never been a master of timing, never been a master of talking about this kind of thing, so of course it comes out wrong. 

They’re sitting on their shared king bed, white sheets fluffy and clean, mid kissing, when Yuuri spits it out. 

“I’m going to retire after I win the grand prix final this year.”

In hindsight, it wasn’t the best time to do it.

“What the fuck?” Viktor hisses, sitting up like he’s been struck. They part. Yuuri feels small and alone, reclined against the headboard of the bed. 

Yuuri gapes up at him. Viktor’s whole body is rigid. 

“I told you. I’m going to retire, and then next year, you’re going to ride Makkachin in the grand prix.” 

Viktor stumbles for words. He settles for a, “you can’t.” 

Yuuri shrugs. “Sure I can. Besides, I’ll keep riding and work at the onsen, and I can ride young horses. Then, you can go back to riding, which, come on, we all know you’re ready to do.”

Viktor pulls himself off the bed. Yuuri watches him go, sadly. The selfish part of him screams “stop, please,” but the rational side edges out. He stays, watching carefully. 

“I,” Viktor starts, “can’t believe you think I’d? Yuuri, what?” He’s exasperated, hands twined in his hair, “didn’t we? Just talk about this at the last show?” 

Yuuri shrugs. “I guess. But that was about you retiring as my coach. And I don’t want you to retire this season – I want you to coach me through the GPF, and then after that, I want you to have the opportunity to get back into the competition world.” 

“How could you say that?” Viktor cuts back. “You don’t know what I want. Stop assuming.”

Yuuri scrambles up. “I know what you want.”

“You don’t,” Viktor spits. “You don’t know shit.” 

He grabs his jacket off the coatrack beside the front door and swing it around his shoulders. “I’m going for a walk,” he calls as he storms out the door of the hotel, hair still messy from Yuuri’s eager hands and then his own frustrated ones. The door slams with a final-sounding thud. Yuuri’s arms shake. 

It was the right choice, he reflects. Viktor ought to know that Yuuri isn’t planning on holding him back for another season. And no matter how much Yuuri’s riding inspired Viktor, he’s now in a place to start riding on his own again, to get back to the one thing that really makes him feel alive. Yuuri is a placeholder, something to pass the time while Viktor’s leg healed and his depression ebbed. 

How could Viktor be mad that Yuuri wants to give him back the thing that Viktor literally told him kept him alive? Sometimes love is about sacrifice. Yuuri rises, grabs his coat, and follow Viktor out the door. They need to talk. 

 

He corners him in the hotel lobby as he waits for a taxi. Yuuri presses his shoulder against Viktor and asks softly; “can we talk about this over dinner?”

Viktor looks conflicted, as if he almost wants to continue to storm off and be dramatic. Then, he nods, but refrains from saying anything until they’re in the taxi, on their way to dinner, probably. Yuuri can’t tell because he can’t speak Russian. 

He reaches out and takes Yuuri’s hand slowly. “I’m sorry I stormed off,” he says finally. “Are you okay?” 

Yuuri nods. “I’m sorry I sprung that on you,” he apologizes. Viktor just squeezes his hand in response. 

They pull up in front of a dingy looking restaurant, red and white tiled floors and bustling servers. 

“I was originally going to take you somewhere very fancy, because you wouldn’t be able to complain, but then I thought I’d take you to one of my favorite resturants.”

Yuuri stares at the shitty restaurant, mouth agape. How is this one of Viktor’s favorites? And how does he knows about it? 

“You surprise me every day,” Yuuri grunts, climbing front the taxi. 

“I try,” Viktor calls back, handing the cab driver a wad of bills and waving him off cheerfully. In the Moscow moonlight, Viktor’s silver hair glows. He turns back with a soft smile, and love rocks Yuuri like tsunami waves. Viktor very well may kill him.

Then enter the restaurant, hand in hand. Viktor says something to the hostess, and she nods and takes them to a booth tucked into a corner, the table marred with marks and seats stained and cracked. 

The waitress approaches, and Viktor rattles something off. Yuuri isn’t quite sure what’s happening, but Viktor still has his hand wrapped around Yuuri’s, so he isn’t sure he cares either. It’s an odd little place, the walls covered in photos of black and white athlete photos, some words highlighted or circled. Yuuri takes a hard look at the one closest to him, which shows a young woman running on a track, her name highlighted by a yellow pen. Everyone in the restaurant is chatting away happily, but on second look, its an odd variety. Behind them sit two Russian punks, like Yurio, but not 15 nor obsessed with tigers. Across the room is a large family, singing what sounds like a happy birthday song. An old man dines alone at the bar. 

“Where are we?” Yuuri finally asks. 

“старый парень,” he says. “It means, ‘old boyfriend.’ Every time I’m in Moscow, I make sure to come here. It’s a functional restaurant, but they run a speakeasy gay bar at nights during the summer. Plus, their food is good.” 

Yuuri nods, and points to the girl on the wall. “So these are all gay athletes, then?”

Viktor nods. “I’m up here somewhere. After vising a few times, they realized who I was and had me sign a portrait of myself. I’m not where, though.” Yuuri laughs, craning his neck to search for Viktor’s photo. 

The waitress reappears with a smile, and delivers two piroschkis on a plate in front of the men. Viktor lifts one onto his plate, wincing at how hot it is. Yuuri mimics him. 

“So,” Viktor says as he waves his piroschki in hopes of cooling it. “What’s this about retiring? Yuuri, you’re just peaking now.” 

Yuuri shrugs. “I know. But. I see the way that you look at Makkachin and I when we ride, how happy you look when you’re on the back of a horse and I just – I can’t take that away from you any longer. Plus, it’s rare that I enjoy competition. And I know that you do, and that Makka is getting old, and that you two deserve at least another season together.” 

Viktor takes a bite out of his piroschki. He chews, thinks, swallows, continues thinking, then speaks. “Yuuri. That’s my decision to make. You can’t force me back into the ring by retiring, no matter what your anxiety tells you.”

“This isn’t about my anxiety,” Yuuri snaps. 

Viktor raises an eyebrow.

“This may be a little about my anxiety,” Yuuri corrects. “But that isn’t the main point. You’re meant to be riding Makkachin, and after this GPF, I’m going to retire so that you can ride him again.” I couldn’t bear to ever be coached by anyone else, he thinks, and that’s why I have to retire. 

“What about History?” Viktor offers. “So you’re just going to let him waste away, doing rotting star’s freestyles in the dark of an old equestrian center? Doesn’t he deserve more than that?”

Viktor is taunting him, trying to get him to rise to the bait and strike back. Yuuri refuses to take it. 

“He’s a horse. He’s happy as long as I love him, and I’m always gonna love him.” Yuuri sighs. “Maybe I’ll sell him. Maybe I’ll just work with young horses. I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t want you to retire,” Viktor says suddenly. “I want to coach you. I love coaching you. I know I’m not the best coach, and I’m sorry that I’m not, but you make me want to get out of bed in the mornings, Yuuri,” Viktor takes a deep breath, “Maybe I’m selfish and I don’t want to stop coaching you because you mean so much to me. But I really think you can be the best, and I believe in you, and I want you to believe in yourself too.”

“But you want to ride too, don’t you?”

Viktor hesitates. 

“I do.”

Yuuri nods. “I’m holding you back, V-

“Don’t say that.” Viktor’s tone is cold again. “Please, Yuuri, you’re not holding me back.” Pleading, now. “I just want you to be happy. And I want to be happy. And you make me really happy, and I’d like to think that I do the same for you.” Gentle, soft, loving. 

-

The first day of competition goes pretty well, all considered. Yuuri is still an anxious, shaking mess when he rides into the ring. The round goes well enough, Viktor smiles when he exits the ring before launching into his usual critique. Earlier, Yuuri watches Yakov do the same for Yurio, even though he had a near-flawless round, and he understands where Viktor gets it from. Makka is a sweaty mess when he rides out, and Yuuri’s gloves make a satisfying ‘slap’ noise when they pat against his neck. 

Sitting around, waiting for his score after his round, Viktor drapes his arm over Yuuri’s shoulders and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. 

Yuuri wishes it could stay like this forever, Viktor chatting on about his mistakes in his pirouettes, Makkachin chewing hay softly in his stall, and Yuuri tucked softly into Viktor’s shoulder. He shivers softly, cold from the Moscow air. 

Viktor stops his rambling to pull away gently and examine Yuuri. 

“Cold?” He asks, and Yuuri shrugs. Viktor leans behind him, and opens the tack trunk pressed against Makka’s stall. He pulls a white jacket from inside, red stripes running down the side. He offers it gently you Yuuri, and his breath catches. 

It’s Viktor’s Russian team jacket. Yuuri handles it gently, as if it’s a relic from time past. Viktor smiles and nudges him. “Put it on.” 

Yuuri obliages. Viktor has longer arms, so the sleeves end midway down his hands, forming sweater paws. Yuuri’s girth is thicker, so the waist clings to him when he zips it softly. 

Viktor is gaping at him, open-mouthed. “Wow,” he says softly. Yuuri blushes, pulling the ends of the sleeves over all of his hands. Viktor dips in suddenly, pressing his lips against Yuuri’s. He kisses back gently, Viktor wrapping one arm around Yuuri’s back to pull him closer. “I really, really, really like you in my clothes,” he says seriously, pulling away. Yuuri smirks. 

“Just your clothes?” Yuuri teases. 

Viktor’s lips part softly. He can see the idea running through his head. Yuuri still finds it hard to believe that he has this effect on Viktor. 

-

Yuuri is still in Viktor’s jacket, except the scenario is quite different. It feels like something that Yuuri would have dreamed up in his imagination, not an actual manifestation. 

He’s pinned against the hotel door, Viktor’s hands snaked in his hair and body pressed flush to his. 

“Off,” Viktor hisses, “off,” and tugs at Yuuri’s shirt. He shrugs off the jacket too, letting it fall to the floor with a resounding thump. Then goes his show shirt, pressed white and clean. 

“God,” Viktor whispers, lower his lips to Yuuri’s collarbone. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.” 

They stagger to the bed, Yuuri’s hands sliding lower and lower down Viktor’s back until he’s playing with Viktor’s belt loops as they kiss. 

They aren’t soft kisses, either. They’re heavy, loaded with months of sexual tension and longing gazes. Yuuri yanks Viktor’s shirt off, pulling it over his head and tousling his hair. They roll onto their sides, covered legs tangled together, lips locked, hands wandering. 

This is what Yuuri’s been aching for. The feeling of Viktor under him, solid and warm and eager, his own flushed skin and panting breaths. His cock is growing harder in his pants, pressing against the fabric of his riding pants. 

Viktor lodges his thigh between Yuuri’s legs, and Yuuri lets out a tiny gasp. 

“Is this okay?” Viktor asks, pausing to look Yuuri in the eyes.

“God, fuck, yes please,” Yuuri replies with a high whine. Viktor’s eyebrows raise, and he flips them so Yuuri is laying under Viktor. 

“Since you’re showing tomorrow, I don’t want to make you sore,” Viktor says softly, “but I can help you unwind.” 

He kisses a solid line from Yuuri’s neck down to the softness of his tummy. He’s an athlete – a goddamn strong athlete, and he rides with the extra 20 pounds on him, and still wins. Besides, from the way Viktor is pressing kisses to the softness above his belt, he doesn’t seem to mind either. 

Viktor fumbles with Yuuri’s belt, pulling it off and unzipping his tented pants. Yuuri blows a heavy breath out when Viktor lifts his hips to slide his pants and boxer off his ass, pooling them around his knees. Cock springing free, Viktor makes a hungry noise. 

“So pretty, my Yuuri,” he whispers, “my beautiful Yuuri.” 

With that, he dips down, his lips parted, and the world goes white and static.

-

Despite Viktor’s contagious and comforting warmth, Yuuri gets up early and leaves the next morning while he is still asleep. He parts sadly, pressing a soft kiss to his lover’s blushing skin. He grabs Viktor’s Team Russia jacket and swings it over his Team Japan polo, and heads off to the barn. Yuuri isn’t competing until late tonight, but he wants to handwalk Makkachin to allow the big horse to stretch his legs. He doesn’t need Viktor for that, and plus, he needs his sleep. 

At the barn already – let you sleep in. xx, Yuuri

He scribbles a quick note onto the hotel stationary and leaves it under Viktor’s water bottle before darting out quietly. 

At 7am, the barn is already bustling with grooms, rider, and trainers. Yuuri dodges past a few reporters with his headphones on, making a beeline to Makka’s stable and tossing a flake of hay into his stall before entering. The horse nickers at the sight of food, and Yuuri laughs, reaching down to take his protective leg wraps off. Once he’s brushed Makkachin to a shiny copper gleam, he leads the big horse from his stall and begins walking him around the massive indoor space. 

Since Russia is so cold, the horses can’t realistically be stabled outside, and the ground is nearly frozen solid, making it hard to ride on the packed earth. Therefore, the competition is being held in a large indoor convention center, and the car park has been turned into the stable area. Yuuri weaves through the aisles, letting Makkachin pick up scraps of hay he finds on the ground and relax. 

Today is the Grand Prix Special, and tomorrow will be the freestyle. Yuuri buzzes with the prospect of making Viktor proud. 

He runs his hands through the gelding’s soft mane as they walk easily, and thinks. 

There is a chance that he could compete on the Grand Prix Circuit on History. The horse has more than enough talent to do the GPF, and is almost there in training. It probably wouldn’t be next year – but give it 2 years, and Yuuri could see the two of them on top of the circuit. He imagines his victory gallop next to Viktor, holding a gold medal to Viktor silver, Yurio cantering along somewhere in the background. He sees himself riding with Phichit until they’re old and laughing at the young kids running through the barn aisles. He sees Chris and his boyfriend getting married on horseback, Yuuri and Viktor at their wedding. He imagines, no, he wants, to ride by Viktor’s side next year, but it’s unfair to ask him to stay and to hold him back. 

Yuuri keeps walking. The problem is that he can’t be coached by anyone else. He’s ruined, and so he won’t ride if he can’t have Viktor. But he won’t ask Viktor to stay, won’t make him. He’ll give him his horse back and let him go home to Russia because when you love someone, you let them go. 

He pulls his phone out to check the time – wondering idly if Viktor is up yet. He wonders if he can get him to bring him coffee except – 

17 missed calls (Yuko)  
4 missed calls (Viktor ❤)  
3 missed calls (Hiko VET)

“Fuck,” Yuuri curses. 

He practically runs Makka back to his stall, fingers shaking as he dials Viktor’s number. The line rings busy. His breathing narrows. 

He remembers the call from Yuko last time, calling to tell him that Vicchan was sick. He remembers the feeling of his big horse’s shaking body, the odd stillness when the life quivered out of him. 

Yuuri barely remembers putting Makka in his stall. He runs on autopilot, dialing Yuko. It rings through to voicemail. He sinks against the front of Makka’s stall, shaking. 

Not History. God, please. Not History. Yuuri has lost too much in the last year, already had to give up one of his horses, and he doesn’t think he can continue riding if he loses History too. 

“Yuuri!” A voice calls down the aisle. Viktor is running toward him, hair messy and unkempt, a dirty jacket strung over his shoulders to protect him from the biting morning air. 

Yuuri stumbles to his feet, hands trembling. Viktor comes to a screeching halt in front of him. 

“I have to go,” he says quickly, “I have a flight leaving in an hour. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He looks down, and Yuuri realizes that his eyes are puffy, as if he’s been crying. 

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Yuuri stammers, “I just saw all the missed calls, and I’ve been trying to get in contact with someone but no one is answering and –

Viktor swears. “History’s colicing. I’m flying back to check on him for you.” 

Yuuri’s blood is ice cold. 

“It’s just a gas colic, the vet said. He probably won’t need surgery, but they’re not sure yet. They’re transporting him to the hospital right now.”

Yuuri is tearing up, his heart tangled in his chest. 

“I’m going to go make sure he’s okay, yes? I’m going to take care of him. Come here,” Viktor wraps his arms around Yuuri and lets the man shake into him. Yuuri drags a heavy breath in and out. 

“You don’t have to go,” Yuuri whispers, buried securely in the folds of Viktor’s jacket. “I’m sorry.” 

Viktor just squeezes him tighter. “I want to be there for him, since you can’t be. I’m going to – YAKOV!” 

Viktor pulls away sharply and waves at the old man crossing the barn aisle. Yakov turns steeply and glares. 

“I NEED A FAVOR!” Viktor shouts. 

Yakov looks like he’d rather die than physically look at Viktor, but trudges over anyways. 

“I have to fly home to Japan,” Viktor says, and no matter how stressed and sad he is, Yuuri’s breath catches at the mention of Japan being home for Viktor. “Yuuri’s horse is colicing and I need to make sure he’s okay. Can you coach Yuuri for me Yakov? Just for the next two days?” 

“Eh?” Yuuri and Yakov screech at the same time. 

To be honest, Yuuri isn’t sure what he was really expecting, but it wasn’t this. The most he knows about Yakov is that he’s a grumpy old man famous for turning riders into winners, and seems to always be displeased. 

“Viktor – 

“Boy –

Yuuri and Yakov start at the same time, but Viktor gives a quick look at his phone and his face blanches. 

“I have a plane to catch!” He exclaims, and then dips in to press a kiss to each of Yuuri’s cheeks. “Ride well, my love! I’ll call you!” He turns. “Thanks, Yakov!” He shouts over his retreating shoulder. 

Yuuri and Yakov are left in the center aisle, staring at each other. Yakov looks as if he isn’t sure what to do with the boy who stole Viktor away from him. 

Finally, he speaks. “What time do you ride?” He asks gruffly. 

“4pm,” Yuuri replies. His voice shakes, from intimidation or the lasting fear for History’s health, he isn’t sure. 

“Yuri goes at 3:20. Get on yourself and warm up, and I will meet you in the warmup ring.” Yakov says shortly. “I do not train losers, Katsuki.”

And so he is left standing in the barn aisle, tears drying on his cheeks, with Makkachin sticking his head out of the stall behind him, watching the chaos unfold. Viktor is out of sight now, running for the airport without a second thought, and Yakov off to go yell at his riders, probably. 

He realizes suddenly that Viktor didn’t even as if he should go to Japan. He just did, intuitively knowing that Yuuri would be terrified and unable to go to be with his horse. After Vicchan, Viktor must have known that the only thing that Yuuri wanted was the confirmation that History was safe and okay. So he went – somehow knowing exactly what Yuuri would need before Yuuri himself even figured itself. Another layer – Yuuri isn’t sure he would have been able to ask Viktor to fly home for him, isn’t sure he could have begged that much. 

He knew. Viktor knew that Yuuri wouldn’t ask, that Yuuri wouldn’t ride until he knew History was okay, wasn’t alone. And who better to stay by his side that Viktor, the only other person that understands loss on a level that Yuuri does. 

Minami comes down the aisle, dodging tack trunks, horses, and hay bales to reach Yuuri’s side. He panting, hard, and there are tears streaking down his face. 

“Do you know?!” He cries, and reaches out to knock himself into Yuuri’s arms. “I just placed a Starbucks order with your favorite coffee and a bagel to make you feel better.” He can’t believe he ever thought the kid was annoying. 

Yuuri nods, and hugs him back.  
“He’s going to be okay,” Minami reassures him, rubbing his back softly. His tuft of red hair drifts into Yuuri’s line of sight. “Viktor will make sure of it.” 

Once again, Viktor will piece him back together. 

Yuuri could mind. Yuuri could care. But here, tucked into the arms of a boy who looks up to him as if he is a golden idol, Yuuri can’t bring himself to. Later today, he will ride into an arena, and he will prove that Viktor is worth being his coach. And if this is, in fact, his last season, he will make sure that the world knows that he did not give up, but rather went out fighting. 

He pulls out of the hug. “Let’s ice Makka, yes?” He suggest, and Minami nods. Even in a serious moment, the boy has a certain light-hearted ferocity to him. Yuuri regrets not giving more time to him. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll have Minami hack Makka before he hops on. Maybe next week, he’ll take Minami along on a trail ride, if History is well enough. 

Has he taken those who love him for granted? Viktor’s sudden departure forces the thought upon him. He remembers Viktor’s angry and frustrated face at the news of Yuuri’s consideration of his retirement. He thinks of Minami’s eagerness to be his travelling groom, and to learn everything he can about the Grand Prix world. He thinks of Yuko, her endless smile and flexibility for Yuuri’s career and horses. Then Minako, her hours spent at the barn, filming Yuuri and giving him ballet lessons to keep him balanced and strong. His parents, always funding his riding career and holding viewing parties at the Onsen. 

It’s not that he never thought of those around him. Love, simply, hinders fear. Everything is, everything exists, simply because those around him love. 

He pulls out his phone as Minami dips into the stall. 

I love you, he types, and presses send.

-

Yakov watches from the side of the arena, watching Yuuri attempt his piaffe to passage transitions. 

He rides incredibly differently from how Viktor rode Makkachin. Viktor, for all his beauty, had a disconnect with the music, and sometimes, the harmony between horse and rider. While the movements were always beautiful, there were times when Yakov wanted to beg Viktor to try harder to reach for something he couldn’t verbalize. 

Yuuri has it. The missing piece that Yakov always pushed Viktor to find. He doesn’t have the strength or the skill that Viktor has, especially on Makkachin, but he has something special. 

“Kick!” Yakov yells across the arena as Makkachin falters. Yuuri jumps into action and swings his heel into Makka’s side. The horse jumps upward, tossing his head in anger that he’d been correctly so sharply. “He’s the best horse in the world. Sometimes, you have to remind him that.”

Yuuri drags in a hesitant breath. He’s due in the arena in just a few minutes, but his transitions are no where near as good as they’ve been in practice.

His mind wanders to History and Viktor. He wonders if he’s okay, if Viktor is with him yet. 

“Move!” Yurio shouts, walking his horse on a long rein across the ring. Yuuri almost crashes into him, too lost in his own head to get out of his way. Makkachin pulls up just in time to avoid crashing, and half rears in anger. Yuuri let out his shaky breath. He looks toward Yakov, who is just standing there in silence, lips pursed. 

He’s rattled. His heart rattles, a caged bird. Makkachin tosses his head, and Yuuri reaches forward to run his hand down the big horse’s neck. 

“Katsuki Yuui!” the steward calls from the side of the ring. “You’re on deck. Please head to the gate.” 

He looks to Yakov and rides his horse up to his temporary coach. Minami jumps in, rapidly beginning to undo the wraps on Makkachin’s legs and clean up his coat before he enters the ring. 

Yuuri now understands where Viktor get his stunningly subpar pep-talk skills. 

“Don’t get nervous and fuck up,” Yakov so-helpfully advises. “Keep more leg on in the transitions, and go for broke in your extensions.” He reaches out and runs a hand down Makkachin’s nose. The big chestnut blows back softly, seeming to remember the hundreds of times that Yakov did this with Viktor on his back. “You’re a hell of a lot easier to coach than Viktor, you know,” he says. “Now go.” 

Minami steps away from the horse with an excited, “good luck, Yuuri!”

He rides toward the gate, hands tightening on the reins. Makkachin jigs in anticipation. They stand at the gate, watching the rider before finish his round. It’s Otabek Altin, the Czech powerhouse. He has a rather stiff way of riding, but his horse moves seamlessly underneath him, as if he isn’t asking for him to do any of the movements at all. 

He canters down the centerline, saluting at X and patting his horse while the crowd cheers. 

Yuuri takes a deep breath and enters the arena. 

“Hey.” A voice calls from behind him. Yuuri twists backwards to see Yurio, standing at the gate, arms crossed. “Good luck.”

Minami stands next to him, holding up a camera and filming Yuuri’s shocked gaze backward. 

He smiles in response, and squeezes Makka into a trot. It’s go time. 

-

History is okay. Because of course he is. Viktor calls a few minutes after Yuuri hops off, buzzing from his ride. 

Yakov attacks as soon as he leaves the arena, shouting about how Yuuri let Makka fall in after his first trot half-pass, and had a late change in his 2 tempis, and how one of his pirouettes was far better than the other. 

The highlight of the afternoon is hearing that History is okay, even after he hears his score, which ends up breaking his PR in the Grand Prix Special. He scores a 73.567%, which is exceptionally good for Yuuri. Tomorrow comes the freestyle, where Yuuri is really riding to make Viktor proud. 

He can’t keep a relieved and happy smile off his face when he makes it back to the barn. Minami is swarming around him and pointing out the highlights of his round on the video camera. 

“Minami-kun,” Yuuri says sweetly as he hops off. “Come here.” 

Minami sidles up to Yuuri. He takes the camera from the boy, and then bends down to offer his knee. “I want you to walk out Makkachin for me. Just ride him around the barns a few times, okay?” 

The young boy looks startled, then touched. He bounds eagerly onto Makka, and Yuuri takes off his helmet and hands it to him. 

“Sorry, it’s sweaty,” he apologizes. Minami laughs, grimaces jokingly, then fastens it onto his head. He squeezes Makka softly, and the big horse begins to walk forward. He watches him ride down the aisle, rubbing the chestnut’s neck as he goes. 

Yuuri watches him go before sitting down on a nearby hay bale and pulling out his phone. He has a missed call and a few missed texts from Viktor. His breath catches, and he doesn’t hesitate to call him back. 

The phone rings twice before Viktor answers. 

“I heard,” Yuuri says quickly, “thank god.” 

Viktor’s voice comes through the phone, warm and reassuring. “Yeah, he just woke up from surgery and is already nibbling on mash. He’s going to be okay.” 

“God. Thank you,” Yuuri says, “I don’t know what I would have done without you.” 

“Mm, maybe scored higher for your half passes, eh?” Viktor jokes, and Yuuri roles his eyes despite being a land mass away. 

“ I did fine, Viktor.” 

“You did,” Viktor says, “Yakov texted me and told me your score. He told me that you were a far better student than I was, too. I can’t believe I’m being replaced by my boyfriend.” 

Yuuri laughs, full and happy. “You’re irreplaceable.”

“How did Makka feel? Good for tomorrow?”  
“Absolutely,” Yuuri replies, standing up and sandwiching the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he begins filling Makkachin’s hay bag full of food. “I wish you were here, though. Obviously.” 

“I wish I was there too,” Viktor says softly, “but I’m glad I’m where I am for different reasons.” 

Yuuri hangs the now full net and begins making Makkachin’s mash. 

“Thank you,” he says again, “for making sure History’s okay.”

“He could be your future, after all,” Viktor says. “And plus, of course I’m here. History needed me, and as an extension, so did you. I didn’t even have to think twice.” 

His stomach does a funny swoop at the idea of riding History instead of Makkachin in the Grand Prix, with Viktor next to him in the warm-up ring, both of them being yelled at by Yakov for tiny mistakes. 

“Yeah,” is all he says, softly, “maybe.”

-

That night, it’s Yurio who finds him and asks him to get dinner with him. His face is curled up, and he asks in a halting voice, as if he’s being forced to do it. Yuuri wonders if he’s lost a bet with the rest of the Russian team, but accepts anyways. 

Yurio takes him to a classy restaurant down the street, and orders appetizers as soon as they arrive in rapid-fire Russian. “I’m starving,” he justifies, glaring at Yuuri. 

Yuuri just shrugs, and removes his jacket. “What’s up?” He asks. 

“Nothing. I can’t get dinner with my friends?” He spits in response. 

Friends. So the Russian punk did appreciate the time they spent together in Japan. 

Yuuri laughs. “Friends?”

“Friends,” Yurio agrees, then continues. “So I hear your horse is sick.”

Yuuri nods. “Yeah, he had colic surgery today. Viktor is with him.”

“That’s very nice of him,” Yurio remarks. “Is he doing well?”

“Recovering,” Yuuri replies. “The vets are pretty sure he’ll make a full recovery.” 

Yurio nods after that, looking around the room as if he’s out of things to say. Yuuri wonders how many times Yurio has gotten dinner with a ‘friend’ before. Based on the boy’s stiff manner, the answer is ‘rarely.’ 

“What prompted this?” Yuuri asks. 

“I already answered that.” Yurio replies. “Plus, I guess I felt bad about your horse. And that you did shit today.”

Yuuri splutters. “I didn’t do shit to-

“You could ride so much better than you let yourself,” Yurio cuts him off. “It pisses me off. You could be a real threat, Katsuki, except you never kick your ass into gear and get it done.” 

“You brought me here for a lecture?” Yuuri says, disbelieving. He already got this from Yakov today. 

“I brought you here to tell you to ride like you care about winning. And to pose a real challenge for me out there.” The waiter approaches with a plate of dumplings, and sets them on the table, seeming to be nonplussed about the shouting Russian boy and frightened Japanese man at the table he’s waiting. He leaves without a word. Yuuri begs him to abduct him, because the last thing he needs after such a rough day is another lecture on his riding and lack of confidence. “And I brought you here to tell you that I’ll chop your balls off if you hurt Viktor.” 

Yuuri looks up. 

“He’s like a brother to me. And he really, really, really fucking likes you. It’s kind of disgusting, actually. But if you hurt him, I swear to god, you’re never going to walk right again from how far my foot has been kicked up your ass.” 

“Um,” Yuuri says, because that’s rather violent and graphic.

Yurio continues on. “That boy is head over fucking heels for you. He gave you his star horse to ride because he was so enamored by your riding. You took him from a miserable guy with a broken leg that wanted to give up on riding and life to someone close – better, really – to who he was before the accident.”

He pauses to grab a dumpling, and pops it in his mouth. “I ghueff,” he says, through a mouthful of dumpling. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that he loves you. And you’re damn good for him. And I’m happy for you two, even though it’s hard for me to show it. But if you hurt him, I’ll fuck you up, okay?”

“Okay,” Yuuri says finally. “Can I have a dumpling now?” 

Yurio shrugs and pushes the carton towards him. 

“I’m not going to hurt Viktor,” Yuuri says. “That’s the last thing I’d ever want to do to him.” 

He finds it funny that he’s getting the shotgun talk from a moody 15 year old. 

They sit in silence at the table for a while, eating dumplings and drinking from the clear water glasses the hurried waiter had brought. It’s Yuuri who breaks the silence. 

“I’m thinking of retiring from the Grand Prix show circuit after Europeans,” he says. Yurio almost chokes, and Yuuri hurriedly realizes his CPR license is expired. 

“YOU’RE WHAT?” He shouts. 

The people at the table behind them turn around. 

“Shhhh,” Yuuri hisses, “I haven’t decided for sure yet.”

“You can’t retire,” Yurio hisses, “you just stopped sucking.” 

Yuuri shurgs. The waiter arrives with another plate of dumplings, and Yurio grabs ones and knifes into it aggressively. 

“It’s just that. Viktor’s been riding again, and I can tell he’s missed it. Next year, he could make a comeback with Makkachin. History won’t be ready for the grand prix for a couple years, and it’s a lot of stress and money that I’m not sure I’m ready to go through again.” 

“So,” Yurio says, “today. Riding out there better than you have in a long time, to make Viktor proud, wasn’t good enough for you? Dating the world champion, who believes on you riding and on the ground, isn’t enough for you? What else is there to keep you here? I thought that Viktor was the muse that made you love riding again.”

Yuuri grits his teeth. ‘Fucking neurotypicals,’ he thinks.

“You don’t think Viktor could ride and coach you at the same time? You don’t think he would love that? Wouldn’t it –

Yuuri snaps. “It’s not that easy,” he snarls. “It’s not as easy as just. Making Viktor stay at my tiny barn in my tiny town in my tiny world. It isn’t as easy as just, oh, riding another season while my parents break their backs still paying for my show fees. It isn’t easy to just get on a horse and go out and ride. I can’t sleep the night before shows. I shake in the ring still. It. Isn’t. That. Easy.”

Yurio, never one to turn away from a fight, rises to the bait. 

“I don’t give a damn if it’s hard, Katsuki.” He says, leaning across the table with his fists firmly planted on either side of the basket of fresh dumplings. “I’m telling you it’s worth it.”

He fails to find a response, and for the rest of the night, it haunts him. 

Before parting, Yurio draws a brown paper bag out of his backpack. 

“For you,” he says, extending them toward Yuuri. He takes them hesitantly, and opens the bag. 

“They’re from my grandpa,” Yurio says tentatively. His voice is uncharacteristically tender. 

Inside are pirozhkis. “Thank you?” Yuuri says.

“Bite into one.” Yurio commands, and he does. 

Tender pork, soft eggs, breaded – wait.

“Is this a katsudon pirozhki?” Yuuri gasps. 

“Grandpa made them just for us.” He says. “I thought you could use all the help you could get before the freestyle tomorrow.” He turns away. “See you on the podium tomorrow. Or else.” 

Later, Yuuri lays in bed, reclined backward in an empty hotel room with 2 beds, thinking about Yurio’s accusation. 

‘Is it worth it?’ he asks himself, over and over again. He thinks of the panic before his rounds, the stress of the warm up rings and the precision he needs in the ring. He thinks of Viktor’s disappointed face when he messes up, and of the way Makkachin challenges his directions as if he’s sure he knows better. He thinks of losing, of unhappy comments on his score sheets, of his mother’s arms when he falls into them and cries. 

He thinks of the good things, too. Of the way it feels when he nails a movement, the roar of the crowds at his final salute, and the way that Makkachin dances when he’s in sync with Yuuri. He thinks of his mother’s trophy cabinet of his awards, of Minako’s support, of Minami’s eager smile. He thinks of Viktor, and his glimmering smile, his gentle and reassuring touches. His proud kisses at the end of lessons, and how it feels to gallop next to him, natural and easy and free. 

His anxiety is an impalpable beast, and it has him in a chokehold. He doesn’t sleep that night, just sits against the headboard and listens to his freestyle music on an endless loop. He tries to imagine someone being proud of him tomorrow.

-

Minami is the first to text him the next morning, as Yuuri steps out of the shower and leans over to turn his workout/shower music down. 

Minami  
6:10 AM: Just fed Makkachin! Grabbing us coffee. See you in a few.

He thanks god for Minami’s commitment to good coffee, and dresses quickly. He doesn’t put on his show clothes, since he isn’t riding until almost 9 pm tonight. Yuuri grabs his room key and the pirozhkis from last night, and leaves swiftly. 

He walks to the barn, because it’s less than a mile away, and he needs some time to himself that isn’t in his stuffy hotel room. The Moscow air is biting and cold, and Yuuri shivers as he steps out and starts walking. Cabs whirl to and -from their destinations, mink-clad figures bundled up inside. His chest still aches with an empty burn from the lack of sleep and overwhelming anxiety. He pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Viktor. 

Viktor❤  
6:22 AM: Good morning, love. Xx

He pulls out a pirozhki, and forces himself to eat something. It’s good, but his stomach is still in knots. His phone buzzes. It’s from Viktor. 

Viktor❤  
6:24 AM: morningggggggg ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ babyyyyyyyyyy

Yuuri smiles and shoots back a response, lies when Viktor asks if he’s slept well, and puts his headphones in. He listens to his freestyle music again, thinking of his movements at each moment in the piece. 

By the time he arrives at the venue and greets Makkachin, his hands are shaking from nerves. Minami notices right away, and stuffs a coffee and a muffin into his hands. He asks if he’s taken his meds this morning. Yuuri nods, resting against the stall door and staring inside. 

He needs to walk Makkachin. He needs to get off this damn wall and walk his horse. 

He can’t. 

He goes to ask Minami to do it for him, but he’s already darted off to do something else. Yuuri remembers him saying something about water buckets. 

He needs to get up. He sips the coffee. He needs. Move. Yuuri, move. 

Makkachin nuzzles him. Yuuri’s breathing is going irregular. He slips into the stall, runs his free hand down Makka’s neck. 

His phone is buzzing in his pocket. It’s probably Viktor. He removes it, hazily. It is. He has a few missed texts. 

He responds. 

Viktor❤  
6:43AM: not doing so good. Nauseous. Anxiety.

He doesn’t wait for a response before promptly puking in the corner of the stall. Makkachin snorts, flaring his nostrils and looking at Yuuri with big, worried brown eyes. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, and reaches out to pet the horse’s soft nose. “I know you’re not used to your riders being nervous.”

Today is what determines if he makes the individual podium or not. And even if he doesn’t, today is what proves that he does or doesn’t deserve a spot in the Grand Prix Final. 

He has to do it without Viktor. He has to do it alone. 

“Yuuri?” A tentative voice says from outside. Still bent over, one hand against the wall, Yuuri groans and looks up. Minami is standing outside the stall, looking in worriedly. “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head ‘no.’ 

“I’m going to fuck up,” Yuuri gripes. “I’m going to fuck up, because I’m a fuckup.”

Minami enters slowly. “Don’t say that.” He says. 

“But I am, Minami. I don’t know why you look up to me so much. I’m not really sure why you’re here.”

“Don’t say that,” Minami repeats. 

Yuuri spins around to face the boy, his voice sharp. “Shut up. I’m a fuck up, and I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t deserve to be riding this amazing horse, I don’t deserve you as my groom, and I certainly don’t fucking deserve Viktor as my coach or my boyfriend.”

Minami bites back. “I’m tired of you putting yourself down, Yuuri!” He cries. “I look up to you because you keep going despite all odds. I look up to you because you’re an amazing rider, and an even better friend. I look up to you because even when everything goes wrong, you keep going. So don’t give up, goddamit.” He steps back. “I’m giving you space. See you later. You’re welcome for all the help, I guess.”

He slams the door shut on his way out. Makkachin snorts again, off-put by the commotion. 

Yuuri leans down and pukes again. Fat tears leak from his eyes, a combination of exhaustion and anxiety and caffeine and vomit. He rests his head against the wall of the stall, balls his fists, and lets himself go. 

-

His freestyle music starts, and Yuuri closes his leg, still feeling like he’s dreaming. He hasn’t recovered from his breakdown earlier, and it showed in his warmup. Makkachin trots forward, ears pricked and eager to continue on. He wishes Viktor were here. He wishes he hadn’t snapped at Minami. He wishes that Yakov didn’t give him a pursed lip ‘good luck’ before he stepped in the ring, as if there was nothing else he could do. 

He wishes he wasn’t like this. 

Regardless, they trot on. The music picks up speed, and he swings across the diagonal in a steep half pass. Makkachin is excited to be performing, Yuuri can feel it. He smiles, slightly, at the idea that at least someone is enjoying this. 

He thinks of Viktor, no doubt at home, watching the livestream from the barn like he said he would be. 

He imagines his coach’s critiques on how stiff his body looks, and how tense he’s riding. 

He imagines his boyfriend’s words about how strong he is, and how good he’s doing. 

Viktor and I are the same, Yuuri thinks, we both ride and have to carry something extra. My anxiety is a weight on my chest, and Viktor’s depression is a pull in his legs.

Passage. Makkachin dances like he has something to prove. Yuuri nudges him forward with his legs, asks him for a little more, to work a little harder, to win for him. 

Makka listens. The music calms. They piaffe, and the crowd holds its breath. Yuuri’s breathing is growing ragged. He pushes him out of the piaffe, leaping straight into a canter. The music peaks, and they gallop. He is swallowed whole, devoured by the dance he has sold himself to. They sweep down the long side of the arena, Makkachin’s hooves thundering underneath him. Instantly into a pirouette, the kind that Viktor used to be able to do one handed. 

He imagines Viktor, sitting and watching a grainy livestream. He releases his left hand in the left pirouette. He sits back, pressing Makka further of his leg. He lowers his hand to his side, and the crowd gasps. Doing movements one-handed raises the difficulty significantly. And here is Yuuri, still yet to execute a flawless test, canter pirouetting one-handed with his coach away, his mental health in tatters, and the world watching with beady eyes. 

For the rest of the round, whatever mistakes he make don’t really matter. He rides, really rides. And that’s what’s important. 

-

Holding his white ribbon and smiling, Yuuri takes a selfie next to Makka and sends it to Viktor. Minami approaches with a tentative smile. The apologize at the same time, then Yuuri pulls the boy in for a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I should have been more understanding.”

“You owe me,” Minami laughs, but all tension is gone from the relationship. 

Yurio walks by, a red ribbon in his hands. JJ, the cocky Canadian, has topped the podium, and Yurio is livid about it. He’s never gotten on well with the young Canadian boy. 

“Ready to go home?” Yuuri asks Minami. “We have a Grand Prix to train to win.”


	2. We Came Here for Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this, my friends, is the rise and fall.

It isn’t until they’re sitting in the hot springs, shoulders pressed together, with Viktor playing with his hand underwater, when Yuuri is finally able to relax. He made it home 2 days ago, and is still trying to catch up on rest, mentally and physically. They went to the barn yesterday just to walk the horses, History stuck in his stall with a huge bandage holding his stiches together. He won’t be able to be ridden for another 6 months, at least. 

They have 2 months until the Grand Prix final. It’s finally starting to warm up, and Yuuri stretches into the rising afternoon sun. Still, the warm water feels amazing on his sore muscles. He spent all of yesterday at Minako’s ballet studio, dragging Viktor with him to show his boyfriend his exercise outside of riding. 

He was sufficiently startled at Yuuri’s flexibility. He takes that into account for later adventures. 

Later being the key word. They haven’t had sex yet, just blowjobs and handjobs under the covers before bed. It isn’t for lack of want on Yuuri’s behalf – Viktor could unravel him any way he wanted. It just never comes to fruition. He doesn’t ask why because he isn’t sure he wants the answer. So he savers these moments, the gentle murmur of small talk in the hot springs, like nothing could ever be wrong. 

“Tomorrow, we’re going to work on your one handed pirouettes, okay solnyshko?” Viktor says softly. “I teared up when I watched you do that in your freestyle. I think it’d be an amazing flourish for the final.” 

“Really?” Yuuri asks, “It was really on a whim.” 

“Mmm, and I loved it,” Viktor says. “Love how you’re always surprising me.” He pulls himself into Yuuri’s lap, and the man laughs, running his hands down Viktor’s sides. 

“You’re the one who’s full of surprises,” he replies. “Like flying over here and giving me a chance.”

Viktor settles back into Yuuri’s chest, and Yuuri wraps his arms around him, pulling him down. “It wasn’t a surprise,” Viktor says, “it was the best decision I ever made.” 

“Mmm,” Yuuri hums, pressing his lips to Viktor’s shoulder. “Love you,” he says, heady from the steam billowing around them and the gentle conversation. He freezes directly after. “Fuck, I’m-

“I love you too,” Viktor twists around, interrupting Yuuri’s frenzied apology. “Don’t apologize. I love you with all my heart.” He leans in for a kiss, soft and gentle. Yuuri can’t help but smile halfway through, and they break apart. 

They stay like that for a long while, carefully wrapped in each other’s arms, happy and at peace. 

 

“C’mon, babe,” Viktor says after a few more minutes. “I’m getting soggy.” He pulls himself from the water, and wiggles his hips as he step away. Yuuri, dry-mouthed, follows.

The sun is just beginning to fall from high noon, and the onsen is quiet. The guests are all either out seeing the city or taking mid-afternoon naps. Whatever reason, Yuuri loves this sleepy part of the afternoon. It’s his favorite time to curl up with a good book in his room and forget the world exists. He tells Viktor this as they walk towards the changing room and their robes. Viktor has an endeared smile on his face the whole time, listening carefully. 

“My favorite time of the day is midnight,” Viktor says. “Because it’s the time of the lovers and the lost, and I have found comfort in midnight as both.” 

“You’re a poetic little shit,” Yuuri teases, “lovers, huh?” 

Viktor’s eyes flash nervously. “Uh,” he says. 

“Am I your lover, Viktor?” Yuuri steps closer. Viktor is backed against the wall know. Yuuri knows he’s being uncharacteristically bold, but he can’t help it. The hot flush rising on Viktor’s collarbones is too much to resist. He raises his arms to wrap around the back of Viktor’s neck, playing with the soft hairs he finds there. 

“Yes, Yuuri,” Viktor replies quickly, “of course you are.” 

“Then why,” Yuuri asks, “why have you not shown me why you love midnight?” 

Viktor’s eyes widen. 

They clothe quickly, both seeming to know what is coming. Viktor follows Yuuri to his room, pressing him against empty hallway walls from fast, hard kisses, before darting on. They’re laughing, tumbling, effortlessly falling into bed, hair still damp and eyes on fire. 

Then they’re kissing. Hands lowering, eyes steadying. Yuuri leans over to turn music on his phone when Viktor moans particularly loud after he bites into his collarbone. It’s delicious. 

They get back to it. Viktor is tantalizing, kissing and nipping with everything he has. It’s hot and heavy, Viktor straggling Yuuri and starting to rut against him helplessly. Just kissing turns into heavy petting, their hands roaming freely. Yuuri grabs Viktor’s tight ass, and Viktor groans, rolling his hips into Yuuri’s cock. He gasps sharply at the feeling, jerking his hips upwards to meet him on his next thrust. 

“Off,” Yuuri mumbles, “take them off.” He grabs at the waist of Viktor’s pants

“Is this okay?” Viktor asks, hands pressed into the flesh above Yuuri’s hipbones. He’s looking Yuuri in the eyes like Yuuri could ever say no, and Yuuri is nodding, but Viktor waits anyways.

“Yes, Viktor, fuck,” he whines, and Viktor smiles softly, bending down to kiss the soft of his stomach. 

“Good. Just making sure,” Viktor says. “Roll over, love.” Yuuri obeys, savoring the hot touches that Viktor traces across his skin. 

“Where?” Viktor asks, and Yuuri scrambles over to his bedside table, grasping the bottle of lube and roll of condoms he’s kept since Viktor moved in. So what. Sue him. 

He hands them to Viktor, and the man just nods. He presses his palm firmly into Yuuri’s back and Yuuri collapses back onto the pillow, leaking cock trapped between his stomach and the bedsheets. 

Viktor is slow, careful, and loving. Neither of them need ask if this is their first time, because it is not the past that matters, but the now. The burn of Viktor’s slender fingers inside of Yuuri, the panting of his breath against the pillow, the languid moans that are teased from his throat, are all memories that belong only to them, and only to this moment. 

He adds another finger. Yuuri moans again, and he feels Viktor’s spare hand reach up to bury itself in Yuuri’s hair. He pulls back as he presses in, and Yuuri arches his back, humming into the feeling with his lips parted and eyes closed in pleasure. 

“Feels good?” Viktor asks, but it’s more of a tease than a question. 

Yuuri moans in response and – fuck. Viktor dips a third finger in. It burns, the stretch taking a moment to adjust to. Viktor keeps his hold on Yuuri’s hair, letting the boy arch back into his fingers and his touch at the same time. Viktor moves his fingers a little faster, fucking into Yuuri and he finally, finally, finally feels full. His cock beads with precome, and when he opens his eyes to look back at Viktor, he sees that his is as well. 

With a start, Yuuri knows he won’t last much longer. Not with Viktor starting to pound into his prostate, not with his hair being deliciously tugged on, not with the sight of his beautiful boyfriend watching him with hungry eyes. 

“Fuck. Me.” Yuuri stammers out. Viktor doesn’t need to be told twice. He releases his hold on Yuuri’s hair, and removes his fingers slowly. Yuuri whines at the loss of the sweet fullness that had him about to come.

He presses his face into the pillow, reaching down to wrap a hand around his aching cock while Viktor rolls on a condom and lubes up. 

“No,” Viktor says sharply, noticing Yuuri’s hand, snaking between his legs. “I’m making you feel good today.” 

He removes his hand begrudgingly, only managing to not fight it because Viktor is lining up to press into him, his slender and long cock slowly beginning to penetrate him, and fuck, Yuuri is whiting out, and he’s not coming but it feels like he could be. 

Viktor hits his prostate, and god, Yuuri is losing his mind with how good this feels. Viktor is inside of him. Viktor, his coach, his idol, his boyfriend, is buried hilt-deep inside his ass, hands braced on either side of him, pressing a soft kiss between his shoulder-blades and asking if he’s okay. Viktor is moving, slowly at first, then finding a solid rhythm, burying himself each time deep enough to make Yuuri’s head jolt. His hole body is vibrating. He’s full, and happy, and in love, and god. 

“So good,” Yuuri moans. “Feels so good, Vik-hic-tor.” His words are cut off by tiny hiccupping sobs. They’re pleasure sobs, cracks in his voice when he can’t hold back how amazing it feels to be fucked, at long last. “More, Viktor, please. More.” 

Viktor obliges, rutting faster into Yuuri until he’s moaning instead of breathing. Viktor is speaking in rapidfire Russian now, and somehow, even though Yuuri has no idea what he’s saying, it’s hotter. His cock aches, begging to come. 

“Gonna,” Yuuri cries. 

“Come,” Viktor commands, reaching down to grab Yuuri’s cock while he continues to slam into him. “Come for me.”

And he does. Magnificently.

-

They spend the rest of the afternoon watching videos of all the top competitors and analyzing them. Viktor wants Yuuri to understand what he's up against, and Yuuri wants to draw from what he sees. Folded on the bed, Yuuri sitting in Viktor's lap, they sit hot chocolate and open Yuuri's laptop. Official FEI videos of the rounds from all the qualifier have been published, along with the official list of qualifiers for European Championships. Yuuri is among them. 

"Here are my predictions for the top," Viktor says. "You, duh. Yurio, JJ, Phichit, Chris, and Otabek. You 6 have the top scores at the moment." Yuuri nods. "They each have something you do not. I want you to watch and see if you can tell what it is that is their trademark. You have one, yourself."

He pushes play on the first video. Yurio and his firey horse come dancing into the screen. Yurio has a scowl on his face as he enters the arena at a canter. They canter down the centerline, halt, and continue. He ended up keeping the music that Viktor chose for him originally. He's really grown into it, too, and seems to have a far better meaning of agape. As usual, his movements are precise and powerful, Tyger flashing across the arena. 

"Power," Yuuri says. "He has power." 

They finish watching the video, and then flick onto JJ Leory's. He's the cocky Canadian that Yurio hates with a passion. Yuuri's had to interact with him a few times, and it was admittedly stressful. He rides a cute dark bay mare named Isabella, and they have a very harmonious way of going. They're riding to a lyrical song that JJ had composed just for him. It's funny, watching him riding to a song about himself, but he executes it well.

"Confidence."

Otabek’s steely Kazak music. He rides as if he is made of glass, and his horse reminds Yuuri of Vicchan. The horse is delicate, and while powerful, has an almost feminine aspect to its movements. He’s really, incredibly good. Yuuri watches carefully. There isn’t much that he’s doing wrong, or anything that would make him lose points anywhere. 

“Strength.”

Chris is next. There is no lack of flare of difficulty in Chris’ rounds. He rarely misses, and always has a high technical score. His piaffe is world-renound for being among the best. 

“Firey.”

Next rides out a young man on a bay. Phichit, his characteristic flourishing salute to the judges before he trots on. He has a certain lightness to his riding style, as if he isn’t making his horse work hard at all, but simply asking Hamster. 

“Softness.” 

Viktor nods. “You can beat them, you know.” He says. Yuuri shrugs.

“I can try,” he replies. “And I will.” 

Viktor reclines and pulls Yuuri backwards into his arms. They fall backwards on to the bed. He leans in and kisses Yuuri softly. 

“Tell me,” he says, “when you think of yourself, what is your strength?”

‘You,’ Yuuri thinks, but he does not say it. 

-

Training multiplies in intensity. Yuuri and Viktor grow closer and closer, outside of practice. But when he’s in the ring, Viktor is even harder as a coach than usual. 

“Again,” he calls, sitting on the edge of the fence and watching Yuuri canter around the recently mowed pasture outside. It’s summer now, and warmth spills throughout Hatsetsu. The pastures outside that the horses usually graze in have become so lush that Yuuko decided to mow one completely and turn it into an outdoor arena. 

Viktor has him train out here a few times a week now, to keep things fresh with Makkachin and to make sure that Yuuri’s allergies are fully active all the time. 

The big chestnut loves being ridden outside. He has the fire and energy that he always possesses inside the arena, and Yuuri admits that it is helpful to train in conditions similar to those he has to compete in. Plus, he loves how happy Makka is. 

He doesn’t love the ten thousand new critiques that Viktor has for him. He lets his leg slide an inch too far forward, and ends up having his stirrups taken off for the rest of the ride. 

It isn’t that he isn’t fit, because he is. He doesn’t always look it, with his thick thighs and soft stomach, but Yuuri can hold his own when it comes to strength and stamina. But the relentless rides, bareback, stirrup-less, and the intense ballet he’s doing has Yuuri constantly sore and aching. Today is no exception, and the constant ache in Yuuri’s legs and abs are making it hard to ride.

He canters Makka down the centerline again, asking the horse to start his 2-tempis. Makka obliages, but spooks at a passing butterfly and they miss their second change. Yuuri rides to correct it, but overdoes it and ends up with a 1-tempi instead. 

“Walk!” Viktor yells from across the ring. “Come over here, Yuuri.”

He does, loosening the reins and giving Makkachin an apologetic pat on the neck. Viktor gestures to the reins when Yuuri approaches, and he hops off the horse, leading Makka to the rail next to Viktor. Lately, Viktor has been hopping on Makkachin when Yuuri can’t get a movement the way Viktor wants him to. It is helpful – Viktor is surprisingly good at explaining, when he remembers to. Yuuri hands him his sweaty helmet, and Viktor buckles it on and then shortens the reins. 

“Watch me,” he commands, and then canters off. Makkachin plays, romping forward at the feeling of the different rider and Viktor’s spurs (Yuuri isn’t allowed to wear them anymore, for training purposes). Viktor halts him sharply, and backs him up a few steps. Makkachin looks affronted. “You give him too much slack. Treat him like an athlete, and make him train like I make you.” 

He canters around the ring once, making Makka extend and collect his gait before he seems to be pleased and canters down the middle of the ring. He starts with 3-tempis, easier than the 1s and 2s. Makkachin rushes through the first two, swapping his hind lead and falling off balance as he expects to do the 2s instead. Viktor tightens his legs sharply, kicking Makka into a gallop. The horse plunges forward, snorting and surprised. They gallop around the ring, and then Viktor collects the canter and heads back down the centerline. 

“He needs to get in trouble when it’s his fault,” Viktor explains, asking for a single change. The horse tenses the stride after. Viktor walks, then picks the canter back up. He changes leads, and then walks again. “He’s always been smart, and he picks up what you’re doing quickly. The problem is that then it looks stiff and robotic. Stop letting him take over.” 

Yuuri bites his lower lip as he watches Viktor repeat the exercise a few more times. Finally, he canters across the diagonal and asks for the 2 tempis. Makkachin starts to rush, but seems to remember the lesson he was just taught, and backs off. They’re executed perfectly. Viktor pulls the big horse up, loosening the reins and petting the horse vigorously. “And then he’s perfect!” He says. “Aren’t you?” 

Makkachin snorts, as if agreeing. 

Viktor gets off carefully. His leg will never be normal again – but as long as Yuuri pesters him about icing it and taking good care of himself, he’s functional. Yuuri steps up and swings onto the horse. 

He starts off with what Viktor was doing – lead change, walk, lead change, walk. Makkachin challenges him for the first few transitions, but Yuuri works the bit and gets Makka to behave. He then goes on to try his tempis. 

Yuuri can feel Viktor watching from across the ring. He’s struck with the insurmountable passion to make him proud. 

Yuuri shifts his leg back, asking Makka to change leads. The horse does, and instantly throws his weight to the opposite site. Yuuri halts him shortly, backing him up. He can feel the pressure of Viktor’s eyes boring into him. 

He repeats. Canters forward, asks for the change. Makka hesitates this time, and stays straight. Yuuri counts out a stride, and then asks for the opposite lead. Eager to please and take over, Makka swings his haunches out – a trick that makes the movement easier to execute, but is far lazier. He would lose a lot of marks for that in the show ring. 

Yuuri suddenly is struck with something. If Makkachin wants to swing his haunches all over the place, he’s going to have to do it and work. He steers the horse into a steep half pass suddenly. His hauches in one place, fore in the other, and brain doing something completely different, it takes Makka a few strides to catch on and he stumbles messily through the first few strides of the half pass. 

“Good!” Viktor calls. “Yes, Yuuri! That’s training!” 

He comes back down the long side. 

“Once more,” Yuuri breathes, reaching forward to scratch Makkachin’s neck. “Once more, and perfect.”

He asks for the first change, and balences. Makka doesn’t fall out. The second, and the horse leans against his leg. Yuuri gives him a soft nudge with his heel. He corrects himself instantly. 

One, two. One, two. One, two. The tempis start coming easily. 

Down the whole centerline, Yuuri counts out his two-tempis, a smile breaking onto his face. Makkachin is finally cantering and doing his tempis without taking over, or failing to do them at all. He’s listening, finally listening. 

The dance is happening. It is coming together. And it is just in time. 

-

That night, they go out. Viktor is still beaming and showering praise on Yuuri for his riding earlier that day. 

Yuuri takes him to a ramen bar nearby his house, one of his favorite places that can still be inside his diet if he tries hard. 

“Ready for our date, love?” Viktor asks softly, wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. He blushes, but nods. 

They weave through the softly lit streets of Hatsetsu, holding hands and talking softly about everything and nothing. Viktor is in the middle of telling him about Makkachin getting loose at his home barn and wrecking havoc when Yuuri blurts it out. 

“Are you going to come back to competition next year?” He asks. 

Viktor pauses mid sentence, looking surprised. 

“Um,” he says, caught off-guard.

“I know we had that fight a few weeks ago,” Yuuri blushes, “and I just thought we should talk about it, seriously, before I head into the Grand Prix Final.” 

Viktor mulls over his words before replying. 

“You could physically do it,” Yuuri offers. “You’ve been riding no problem. As long as you remember to take care of yourself, you’d be fine.” 

“It’s less about my body physically, and more mentally,” Viktor replies. “It’s just. The last few months, coaching you, have been the best months I’ve had in years. I’ve learned to love riding and dressage again as an art, and not just as a means to an end.”

Yuuri tightens his grip on Viktor’s hand. “I think you’re too good to leave. I think you owe Makkachin the art you found again.” 

He imagines Viktor at his peak – beautiful, graceful, elegant. The kind of power that Yuuri could only dream of achieving. He thinks of Viktor managing to somehow ride even better than that – to embody art while he rides. 

“I haven’t decided,” Viktor settles on finally. “I have a lot to consider, as do you. Even if I come back, and ride Makkachin, you and History have the opportunity to be world class in a couple of years.” 

But where would he train? Who could he ever ride with that would challenge and inspire him like Viktor does? The idea of replacing Viktor, in any way, shape, or form, is ludicrous. 

And anyways. If they’re officially boyfriends now, trying to keep a long-distance relationship going while they’re both working and competiting 24/7 would be so hard. So worth it, but so hard.

Yuuri stays silent. The reach the restaurant, still hand in hand, and are ushered in by a women that Yuuri’s known since birth. She coos over Viktor, unsurprisingly, smiling and leading them to a private booth near the back of the restaurant. 

“This place is amazing,” Yuuri offers, and Viktor is staring at the menu as if he’s suddenly gained the power to read it. “Do you want me to translate for you?”

Viktor shakes his head, and tries his hand and pronouncing one of the words. 

Yuuri is surprised. There’s no way that Viktor’s picked up Kanji just from being around his parents. “Have you been studying Japanese?” He asks, startled. 

Vikor looks sheepish. “I’ve been having Mari help me out every now and then, when we wake up before you.” 

His heart beat triples in speed. Yuuri carefully lifts Viktor’s hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing his knuckles gently. 

“I don’t know what to say,” He says. “That’s probably the sweetest and cutest thing anyone has ever done for me.” 

Viktor’s eyes sparkle with mirth and light. “Get used to it, because I plan on surprising you, Yuuri Katsuki.” 

Dinner is soft and sweet. They chat the whole times, fingers tangled on top of the table once they finish. 

“I have an idea,” Yuuri says, once they’ve finished eating and are paying the bill. “Do you trust me?” 

Viktor nods. They walk about to the onsen, and Yuuri grabs his keys off the counter by the table before pulling Viktor to his car. 

“C’mon,” he urges. They slip inside. Viktor inquires where they’re going, but Yuuri doesn’t answer, just starts driving. He holds his hand while they drive, reaching across to keep Viktor close to him. 

The barn is silent and empty when they arrive. It’s nearing on midnight. Yuuri leads Viktor into the barn, and they tumble in, trading little kisses in between laughter. 

Yuuri pulls Makkachin from his stall, the big chestnut looking affronted to having been woke up. “Grab your helmet,” Yuur instructs, and Viktor obeys, fastening the strap while Yuuri begins wrapping Makkachin’s legs in protective bandages. 

He skips the saddle, picking up his own helmet on his way to grabbing Makka’s bridle. 

Viktor is petting his horse when he returns, murmuring something into Makkachin’s forehead. Yuuri can’t help but to slide behind his boyfriend and press a soft kiss to the side of his neck. Viktor smiles and hums into his touch. 

The barn is Yuuri’s peaceful place, and so is Viktor. He wants to experience that with him. 

Even though he’s in tennis shoes and jeans, Yuuri bridles Makkachin and then leads him to the mounting block beside the ring. Viktor follows, pestering him by asking what they’re doing. 

Yuuri walks the horse in a circle, sitting on his bare back. 

He brings Makka back around to the mounting block. 

“C’mere,” Yuuri calls, and Viktor steps up onto the block. Yuuri reaches out an arm, gesturing to Viktor. He seems to realize what Yuuri is asking him to do suddenly, mouth forming a perfect O in surprise. 

“Won’t he buck?” Viktor asks, and presses his hand onto Makka’s back, as if testing the chestnut to react. 

“Yuuko and I did this all the time as kids. It’s fine.” Yuuri laughs, “you’d be surprised how tolerant horses are.” 

Viktor slowly swings his leg over Makkachin’s back, wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s stomach and settling behind him. Makkachin shifts, unsure of what is going on. 

“Betcha never did this in Russia,” Yuuri teases, and Viktor laughs.

“Yakov would have killed me.” 

“Perks of my coach,” Yuuri smiles, and tightens his legs on Makkachin’s sides, urging the horse into a walk. It takes them a minute to settle into a comfortable position, Makkachin’s bony withers jabbing into Yuuri’s dick and Viktor whining about not being able to see. “We’re going to skip trotting,” Yuuri says, “and just go fast. Because it’s smoother, and I also like being alive.” 

Viktor laughs, a full, loose, laugh, but suddenly they’re off. Makkachin canters forward, his reins loose and head high. Viktor pulls himself closer to Yuuri, tucking himself into the boy’s back. They canter around the ring, laughing as Viktor edges his horse faster. Makka seems to be enjoying it too, his ears pricked and pace lively. They aren’t galloping, just cantering loosely around, the boys on his back cackling with laughter as they try to stay on the horse’s slippery back and smooth gaits. 

God, Yuuri finds himself thinking, I want to be with this man for the rest of my life. 

When he pulls Makkachin up, letting the horse walk, he turns back to look at Viktor. His cheeks are red, his blue eyes crystal, and a look of pure love and life on his face. 

Yuuri can’t bring himself to regret his thoughts. 

-

They spend their mornings starting slowly. Viktor still spends the earliest part of the day chatting with Mari and learning Japanese slowly, while Yuuri sleeps until 8. They jog together, Yuuri trotting along the streets of Hatsetsu while Viktor whines and follows. He runs to keep the stress off and his fitness high, and Viktor bikes to exercise his knee watch his ass bounce from behind. It’s a win/win. After a dip in the hot springs for their sore muscles, it’s off to the barn to do whatever training Viktor has synthesized for the day. 

Yuuri almost always rides both Makkachin and History – especially lately. Viktor has developed a keen interest in Yuuri’s young horse, and he supposes it’s because he wants him to be Yuuri’s next Grand Prix horse. Some days, Viktor rides History instead, when his knee feels good enough, schooling him through movements that Yuuri tends to miss. 

With less than a month to go until the Grand Prix Final, everything is finally starting to fall into place. Makkachin is at peak fitness, well muscled and perfectly healthy. They’re in a groove. It’s going well. Yuuri gets to fall asleep to a beautiful man kissing him every night.

He should have known it was doomed to fall apart at some point.

“So Viktor came in for a chat yesterday,” Minako says, as Yuuri stretches himself against the ballet bar. “And he said you’re quitting next year.” 

Yuuri grunts in response. 

“Can I ask why?” Minako presses. “You’re at your peak. You have an amazing coach who wants to keep working with you - and better than that, he’s also an amazing boyfriend.” 

“I know,” Yuuri says. And then slowly continues. “I think we’re going to have to break up after the Grand Prix.”

Minako spins around. “You WHAT?” She shrieks. 

“I mean,” Yuuri continues, “I dunno.” 

She pulls Yuuri off the bar and spins him around to face her. “Why are you going to break up with Viktor? And what’s this bullshit about you and him argueing about your career?”

“I’m only going to hold him back,” Yuuri says. “As his boyfriend and as his student. He won’t be able to ride as well if he’s always worried about coaching me. And how are we going to make long distance work if there’s really no way we could be together?”

Minako rolls her eyes. “You’re being a dipshit, Yuuri. Have you ever thought of asking him what he think? Sounds to me like you’re making a lot of assumptions.” 

“I have talked to him,” Yuuri replies. He thinks of their fight over his future, and shudders. “Minako?” He say hesitantly. “I’m in love with him, but I don’t know how to make it work.”

“Sit,” Minako gestures to the yoga mat she has spread on the floor. Yuuri obliages, laying down next to her and resting his head against the cool floor. 

He feels vaguely sick to his stomach, thinking about Viktor’s sweeping blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. He loves him – he thinks he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, but more than that, Viktor is the kindest, most loving, most careful, most dedicated person that Yuuri has ever met. He’s lucky to have him. He doesn’t want to give him up, but the other option is smothering him. ‘If you love someone, leave them wild,’ rings in Yuuri’s head. 

“Viktor came in here this morning to ask what he could do to convince you to keep riding in the future,” Minako continues. “He wants to keep working with you.” 

“He can’t.” Yuuri says bluntly. “It’s not possible.” 

“So you don’t love him enough to try?” Minako hisses. “So you’re just going to give him up? This up? Everything you’ve ever worked for?”

Yuuri swallows his anger and replies carefully. “It’s not like that, Minako. You don’t get it.”

He body posture stiffens. 

“Yuuri.” She says, coldly. “I gave up my career as a professional ballerina because I was terrified of losing a man that ended up leaving me anyways. I’ve been drinking ever since. Don’t quit things because of other people. Do things for you, for fuck’s sake. I bet you ride for Viktor every time you compete. That’s cute – having someone to love is great – but you need to start riding for you. Stop relying on other people for validation. Validate your own damn ass.”

He doesn’t know how to reply. ‘Viktor is the first person who’s made me feel alive,’ his voice rings, ‘Viktor and I are both fucked up and we compliment each other.’ ‘I could never train under any other coach.’ ‘I don’t want to be alone and afraid anymore, so I want to give him up before he leaves me.’ 

He settles for a hum. 

“Talk to him,” Minako repeats. “Talk to him and tell him want you want, and don’t be afraid of it.” 

-

They don’t end up talking about it until Barcelona comes. 

Packing for the show is a loving affair. Viktor wraps him up in Makkachin’s cooler and presses kisses to his nose while Yuuri giggles. He imagines doing this without Viktor at his side, and it hurts. They clean tack together, swapping stories about the weirdest show experiences they’ve ever had. Viktor had a fan run into the ring mid-ride. Yuuri doesn’t really have any that don’t involve him fucking up massively, so he just shares the story of his first fall instead. He was young, probably 8, and was cantering around with Yuuko, when his pony tucked its head into its chest and Yuuri – as a plump, short legged child – rolled off the pony’s neck and tumbled 4 meters before stopping. 

Viktor finds it funny, of course. When it comes to Yuuri, he’s full of smiles and tender touches. Unless he’s coaching. Then it’s a constant stream of ‘Yuuri what the actual fuck.’

They give Makkachin a bubble bath together, tying the big horse in the aisle and using a bucket of soap to scrub his body. He relishes in the attention, adoring the coos, the petting, and the endless stream of treats from an over-excited Minami. Minami has gone from terrified of Viktor and in love with Yuuri to adoring of Viktor and massively in love with Yuuri. Viktor started giving him lessons on his own horse when he has free time, and the young boy is ecstatic and rapidly improving. Yuuri could see him as one of the greats in Japan in the coming years. 

When the tack and horse are both clean, they load the trunk, getting ready to ship their equipment across the ocean to Spain. 

The question clings to the air like static. Yuuri dances around Viktor, darting off whenever he seems to come close to asking the question. Minami is oblivious, racing around the barn, and Yuuri uses it to his advantage. He calls Minami over between moments, when Viktor is poised to strike. 

He wants to bathe in this warmth for just a little longer before he has to come clean. 

-

Barcelona is here, and she is beautiful. They check into their hotel, a swanky place in old town, right by the Picasso museum. They fly in the early morning, and go directly to the barns to check on Makkachin, who is happily munching on hay in his stall. Minami met him at the barn when he arrived, and tells them that he already hand walked him around the whole property. Pleased, Viktor ushers Yuuri back to the hotel, despite his protests. He feels like he should be by his horse’s side until the moment they leave to ensure his safety. This is his one shot to get things right. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. 

They lay in bed together, the guise of sleeping alone gone. Yuuri curls into Viktor’s chest, savoring the feeling of him run his hands down his back and humming softly. The next few days are about to get insanely stressful and tense. For now, he craves the smell of Viktor’s Versace perfume, his deep voice, the sound of his heartbeat against Yuuri’s ear. He could die here, tucked into Viktor, safe and warm and calm. 

So of course, his anxiety ruins it. 

“I haven’t decided what to do next year yet,” he blurts. 

Viktor pulls back, just slightly, and eyes him. 

“I don’t know what I want.” 

“What are your options?” Viktor says carefully. 

He loses either way. He loses Viktor no matter what he chooses. Who the fuck cares anymore. 

“I quit, sell History, and make money teaching lessons and working with my family.” Viktor looks pained at the idea. “Or I take a year or two off the competitive scene, and ride History.” And you go home without me, no matter which I choose, he doesn’t say. 

Perhaps Viktor hears it in his voice. Perhaps it was written in the starched white sheets all along. Perhaps there was never any other option than to let this go. 

“You know what I want already,” Viktor says finally. 

No, Yuuri thinks numbly, I don’t. 

“And that is your decision,” he says carefully. “Now cuddle with me.” Viktor draws Yuuri back into his chest, but the calmness is gone. There is a hazy of anxiety that has settled over the bed. 

If Yuuri quits, he’ll never get to see Viktor again. He’ll never show against him, never lay pressed against his chest in hotel rooms in foreign and fancy cities. If he stays, he will have to watch Viktor doing it with some other lonely boy, which is almost worse. To live the life of never seeing his love again, or to give him up and have to watch that. It’s an impossible choice. 

He leans into Viktor, stifiling a sob, and prays this moment will never end. ‘I love you’, he thinks, ‘I love you endlessly. I love your quirks, and I love your weird-ass coaching methods, and I love that you can’t sleep alone. I love your love for horses, and I love your passion for the sport, and I love how to fight for what you love even when it beats you down with a big pointy stick. I love you on your worst days, and I love you on your best. I love you, Viktor Nikiforov.’ 

He doesn’t say it. Not yet. So he falls asleep instead, tucked into Viktor’s chest. Safe. Home.

-

Yuui wakes up later that night to the feeling of Viktor shaking him softly. 

“Yuuri,” he says softly, “you have to wake up. It’s time to go ride.”

Yuuri rolls over and groans. His muscles still feel stiff and cramped from the plane ride. He can’t imagine how Makka must feel. 

“Up!” Viktor cheers. “I’ll treat you to dinner after. You haven’t lived until you’ve had patatas bravas.”

Yuuri moans again, then pulls himself to an upright position. “Yes, world traveler,” he teases. Viktor’s been traversing Europe for riding for ages. 

He climbs out of bed, dresses swiftly, and follows Viktor downstairs, who’s already dressed and polished. Yuuri still feels groggy when he stumbles into a taxi. Viktor shoots off some rapid-fire Spanish to the driver, and they take off. 

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” Yuuri gripes. “Stop being so perfect, ugh.”

Viktor just laughs in response and kisses Yuuri’s forehead. 

The showgrounds are beautiful, outdoor, warm, and lush. Minami is darting around their makeshift tack room when they arrive, Yuuri still yawning from jetlag. 

“Heya!!” Minami cries. “Phichit and Chris came looking for you guys earlier.”

“Mmm,” Yuuri mumbles as he feeds Makkachin a carrot. At the same time, Viktor’s face lightens. 

“How long ago?” He inquires eagerly. “I miss Chris!” 

A stray pang of jealously courses though Yuurri. Chris is always so touchy with Viktor. He supposes the two must have had a history. He doesn’t really care to inquire. That’s the past – Viktor’s business, meant to be left where it belongs. He shoves it down and pulls out his phone to text Phichit hello. 

Miami pulls Makka from his stall and starts grooming. Phichit replies quickly, saying he’s hopping on and to meet him in the ring. Yuuri begins getting himself ready, Viktor an endless stream of things to remember behind him. 

He can’t believe he’s back. He can’t believe he gets another chance to prove to the world that he belongs here, after last year’s disastrous ride and subsequent tragedy. He looks at Viktor out of the corner of his eye. And for Viktor to be back too, walking on his own and coaching, is nothing short of a miracle. They’re both pieces that shouldn’t be here, but together, they made it. 

Yuuri swings into the freshly cleaned saddle and smiles at Minami. “Good luck!” He shrieks, and Yuuri wink back. The boy blushes furiously and twirls off to start some sort of barn task. 

Phichit, true to his word, is already in the main ring when Yuuri arrives, hacking Hamster around on a long rein when Yuuri enters. He stops next to him smiling from ear to ear. 

“Yuuri! I’ve missed you!” He cries, and Yuuri breaks into a grin. He’s missed seeing Phichit’s smile every day. As much as he loves Viktor, there will never be a friend like Phichit again. 

“I’ve missed you too,” Yuuri replies eagerly. “How are you doing? Nervous?” 

Phichit shrugs. “Nah,” he says. “More excited. I’m the first Thai rider to ever make it to the Grand Prix Final, so I’m honored to represent my home. I’m just hoping for good round, yanno?”

“Trust me,” Yuuri laughs, “I know.”

“Oh c’mon,” Phichit teases, “we all know you’re a top contender for the gold.” 

Yuuri shrugs. He’s been scoring high enough to make the podium, and if he rides like he does at home, he could make the top 3, easily. “If I keep it together, I’ll give you a run for your money.” He tells Phichit. 

Across the ring, there is a shout from Phichit’s trainer, Celestino. “Phichit! Warm! Up!” He shouts. 

Phichit shrugs and smiles, nonplussed. “Later!” He calls, pressing his heels into Hamster’s sides and trotting away. 

He warms up slowly, ,trying to get the best of his nerves as he rides. It’s hard, especially with Viktor over the comms in his ear, critiquing his riding. He knows where he gets it from now – years of training under a harsh Yakov taught Viktor something about tough love. Except it’s only in riding that it applies. Yuuri risks a glance over his shoulder to look at Viktor, who is standing at the side of the ring, arms crossed in his Team RUS jacket. Everywhere else, Viktor is the softest and mmost loving person Yuuri’s ever known. He’s incredibly lucky. 

They finish off after an hour. Viktor, for once, looks pleased. 

“Ride like that in there, and the gold medal will be mine to kiss.” He proclaims. Yuuri laughs. 

“So no kisses if I don’t win?” Yuuri asks, hopping down and pressing himself closer to Viktor. “I better stock up now, then.” 

He leans in for a kiss, tilting his head slightly to meet Viktor halfway. 

“GROSS!” A shout comes from down the barn aisle. “THERE ARE MINORS HERE!” Yurio comes charging down the aisle, holding Tyger. “Take your gross, sappy love elsewhere.” 

Viktor’s face tightens slightly. “Just because you have personal problems with intimacy doesn’t mean you need to be rude about it.” He says. Yuuri almost laughs, before he sees the cutting scowl that crosses Yurio’s face. The boy storms past Viktor and into the ring. “Sorry about him,” he says, “Yurio has a lot to work through, and he should know better than to take it out on us like that.” 

Yuuri nods, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable with Yurio. 

“Don’t worry,” Viktor says, reading Yuuri’s mind, “it isn’t the gay thing. It’s the. Other shit. Teen angst.” 

Yuuri laughs softly. “Were you an angsty teenager once, Vitya?” 

“Mmmm,” Viktor curls around Yuuri, “never. Also, I love the nickname.” 

They walk back to the barn together, leading Makka. Minami greets them at the stall, taking Makka from Yuuri and leading him into the stall. Yuuri and Viktor convene inside the tack room, watching the clips of Yuuri’s ride that Viktor had filmed. Yuuri watches carefully, critiquing tiny things he sees himself doing wrong. Regardless, he’s riding better than he’s ever seen himself ride before. There’s no doubt that Viktor’s taken him to another level of riding and transformed him into the type of rider that could win the Grand Prix. And if he has clean rounds over the next 3 days, he really could make the podium. 

“Feelings?” Viktor murmers, hooking his chin over Yuuri’s shoulder. He shivers at the warm breath tracing down his neck. 

“About?” Yuuri responds. 

“Tomorrow? The Grand Prix? You know,” Viktor pokes him, “one of the biggest days of your life?” 

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “Duh. Anyways, what are we doing tonight? Just hanging around the barn?” 

“I thought I’d show you around Barcelona a little,” Viktor suggests with a shrug, “it’s one of my favorite cities in the world.” 

Yuuri smiles softly at the idea of exploring the world with Viktor. Waking up in hotels at Viktor’s side. Boarding airplanes and crossing borders by his side. 

He nods in response, and they return to taking care of Makka. 

-

Viktor leads Yuuri through the winding cobblestone streets with a carefree grin. He has his hand laced trough Yuuri’s, and he points out every important landmark the pass – especially the food and shopping ones. The city is gorgeous at night – warm and humid, like stepping into in sauna. The people are tanned and carefree, dancing in the streets while live bands play. Vitkor pulls Yuuri into a crowd of salsa dancers, grabbing both his hands and pushing his body back and forth while Yuuri stumbles over his feet. 

“For a dancer, you sure at bad at salsa,” Viktor teases, eyes sparkling with mirth. Yuuri rolls his eyes and purposefully steps on Viktor’s foot. 

They continue through the streets, Viktor seeming hell-bent on finding something. They pass restaurant after restaurant, shop after shop, and it isn’t until they finally reach one particular place that Viktor stops him. 

“This,” he says softly, “is where I first fell out of love.” 

Yuuri freezes, and stares up at the church. 

“Church?” He asks. He hadn’t known that Viktor was religious. 

“My first Junior Finals were in Barcelona,” Viktor says, “and it was the last time, until now, that I really loved riding with all my heart. After I won here, it suddenly became all about sponsors and winning and fame and-

Viktor pauses. 

“- I just. Wanted to bring you here, to the last spot that I felt this way, to thank you, with my whole heart, for teaching me how to love again.” 

Yuuri is tearing up. Yuuri is crying. Yuuri is a grown-ass man, crying on the streets of Barcelona because his boyfriend is strong, and brave, and so, so beautiful. 

“You taught me how to love too,” Yuuri says, “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. And I don’t think I ever will again.” 

-

Gold, flashing in a windowsill, stops him. He yanks Viktor through the double glass doors, despite his confused yelp, and charges up to the cashier. He grabs Viktor’s hand, and extends it. 

“I need his ring size. I’m a 9.” Yuuri declares, and the man obliages.

20 minutes later, the exit the store, Yuuri’s pockets considerably lighter. 

-

“And I will never love anyone like I love you,” Viktor says, leaning in slowly. Their hands are tangled, with each other and with weighty gold bands. “And I will love you no matter what happens tomorrow, and no matter what happens the next day, or next year. I love you, and I love only you.”

Yuuri leans in too, dipping his head to rest his forehead against Viktors. “Tomorrow,” he says, “I am going to go out there and win you a gold medal. And I am going to keep winning medals by your side for years to come.”

“Yeah?” Viktor asks, a smile teasing his lips. 

“Yes,” Yuuri replies, “forever.”

 

And you know what? He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAND that's a wrap! You'll notice that I didn't really hash out the ending comp, because I didn't really feel the need to. The fic had a big focus on the riding aspect, and I felt that the end should more focus on Yuuri and Viktor's growth and relationship than specifically Yuuri winning a gold medal. Thank you all for /riding/ through this with me (heh!) and I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I loved writing it! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Chapter 2 is the end, and it's well on it's way. This fic will be just over 40k total, so expect the final installment within a week or two.


End file.
